


Do You Trust Me?

by round_robin



Category: Dollhouse, Jossverse, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, First Time, M/M, Moriarty - Freeform, Moriarty's assassins, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after watching Sherlock's fall, John discovers that his friend isn't dead. No, he's much worse.... With his mind taken away from him, John has to find a way to break Sherlock out of the Dollhouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Do You Trust Me? （你信任我嗎？）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/630177) by [EEKWGERMANY](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EEKWGERMANY/pseuds/EEKWGERMANY)



> I'm kind of in a bad mood right now, so I'm breaking one of my rules, which is to never post a chaptered fic until it's complete. I don't like making people wait, but some comments and kudos would make me feel better. I'm well on my way to being finished with this, so don't worry that I'll only do a few chapters and never finish. No one ever needs to worry about that with me.
> 
> Another personal rule I'm breaking: no crossovers. I hate, hate, hate crossovers, and here I am writing one. I'm not making any judgments on other people who do write crossovers, but managing to mesh the different 'verses is hard enough, and most people really don't get it right. It's possible that I'm not even getting it right here. That being said, I started rewatching Dollhouse recently and got an idea for a Sherlock cross. The idea wouldn't go away and well, now here we are. This is Sherlock crossed with Dollhouse season one (because there's no way I can make it mesh with everything that happened in season two, I mean, my god). So I guess everyone should enjoy?
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so if you find a typo, I'd love to know about it.

Dan collapsed back onto the bed after rolling off Mrs. Tyler—no— _Donna_. She told him to call her _Donna_. He probably should get used to that, especially since they just… yeah.

“That was amazing,” he panted.

“I’m glad you enjoyed,” Donna giggle.

She reached a hand over to tangle it in his curly black hair, combing through the curls a bit until some of them were adorably fluffy. He hated it when his hair was like that, but she seemed to like it. Eyes raked over him and Dan suddenly had the urge to pull the sheet up to cover himself. Why? He’d just had sex with the woman, why was he suddenly shy? But maybe this was normal? The embarrassment coming right after but not giving a flying fuck during? Maybe. It’s not like he would know.

Pulling her gaze back up to meet his, she smiled in a way Dan didn’t know how to think about. That predatory look… it’s what got him here in the first place. “Was that really your first time?” She asked. “I know you said you’d never done anything like this before—”

“It wasn’t a line,” he said quickly. A blush stained his cheeks for having interrupted her. God, was it always like this? “I mean, I know I’m a bit older, but really, I’ve never done,” his eyes flicked over the bed. The rumpled sheets, the smell of sex still heavy in the air, the fluids that were going to stain. All of it was so new to him. “This,” he said.

“What?” She smiled, fingers still in his hair. “Gone to bed with one of your tutees’ mothers? Or the sex?”

He shrugged. “Both.”

That only made her smile wider. “Well, for a beginner, you did quite well.” With that, she leaned over and snatched a kiss. When she pulled away, her tongue snaked out to run over his bottom lip before she sighed. “I love your lips. So full. You don’t see that on a lot of men.”

Another shrug. “That’s what everyone says.”

“Mmm,” she hummed. “You’re so beautiful, Dan, how have you gone this long without having sex?”

The blush was back, heating up his face hotter than hot. One would think it would be impossible to be embarrassed when lying naked with a woman who just had her tongue wrapped around one’s most intimate places. “Don’t know, really. I’ve always been too busy with school, I guess.” Working on a PHD wasn’t a picnic. Dan was lucky that he even had time to do any of this on the side tutoring. Though, he probably couldn’t afford to keep himself fed if he didn’t.

She leaned in for another kiss before pulling back for good. Going as far to stand up and start dressing. “Not that I wouldn’t love to go again,” Donna smiled. “But you really should go. My husband will be home soon and, well, how would it look having our son’s chemistry tutor here when our son is not?”

“Yes, right.” Dan nodded and climbed out of the bed as well. He kept his back to her as they both dressed.

When everything was properly buttoned and zipped, he turned back around and smiled at her. “Can I see you again?” He asked.

“I hope so,” Donna smiled.

“Great,” his face could hardly contain his smile. And jeez, he was her son’s chem. tutor! This was so wrong in so many ways… but he didn’t want to stay away. No, worse: he couldn’t.

She walked him to the door and handed him his bag with a smile. “You’ll come around for Jake’s lesson on Tuesday?” She asked.

“Oh yeah, I’ll be here.” He smiled. He didn’t ask about maybe seeing her (in private) on Tuesday, but he knew she was thinking about it too. She had to be. One didn’t just forget sex like that… he assumed.

“See you then,” Donna nodded and shut the door behind him.

With a smile so wide, it almost split his face, Dan walked down the block back to his car. Yes, he wanted to see her again. Because after months of coy little smiles, plates of home-made cookies and those gentle squeezes of his shoulders, this final step was amazing. Beyond amazing. He never imagined that all that flirting could lead to this. Sure, lots of mothers flirted with him, but Donna was the only one to go this far. And Dan was so glad she did.

Before he could get to his car, a man walking the other way on the sidewalk brushed against his arm. “Sorry,” Dan looked up to say.

The man just smiled at him. He looked strangely familiar…. “Are you ready for your treatment?” He asked.

Something inside of Dan’s head recognized the words, but he just couldn’t grasp. “I’m sorry?”

An exasperated smile pinched its way across the man’s face. He reached out and placed his hand on Dan’s elbow; he didn’t find it entirely unwelcomed. “Are you ready for your treatment?” He said again. Slowly. Pronouncing all the words as clearly as he could.

It all clicked in Dan’s head. Yes, his treatment. After what happened with Donna, he’d completely forgotten. “Yes,” he nodded, and the man relaxed. “Yes, let’s go.”

“Sure,” the man smile and pulled him away. Down the street into an unmarked van.

 

~

 

The day flashed in front of Dan’s eyes. Only backwards… and as it went, his head felt… emptier. Lighter. It was a pleasant feeling. He saw himself climbing out of Donna’s bed. Then he saw himself with his arms wrapped around her, teeth biting softly at her neck. Next, he was falling into her bed as she pulled off his clothes. Then he was in her dining room, delivering some assignments for Jake. Last he was at the door, ringing the bell and seeing her smiling face as she opened it up.

Then everything was gone. Dan was gone. Who was Dan? His name was Siren and this was his home. Such a nice place.

The chair slowly moved up and Siren opened his eyes, blinking around at the room. It was such a nice place. Lots of pretty lights and screens playing lovely pictures. Squiggly lines in all sorts of colors.

“Hello Siren,” the man next to him smiled. “How are you feeling?” He knew this man. He’d seen him many times.

Siren smiled up at Topher. “Did I fall asleep?” He asked.

Topher smiled back, the placid, gentle look that put them at ease after a wipe. The last thing he needed in that chair was an emotionally compromised active. “Only for a little while.” He said. Part of the script, it was always the same.

“Shall I go now?” Siren asked. Those brilliant blue eyes were so blank, but then again, they all were. Nothing more than children, so safe in their cushy paradise.

He shrugged. “If you like.”

A large, dopey smile crossed Siren’s face and he pushed himself up from the chair. All six foot one of him moved out of the chair with more grace than a man of that size should possess. For a while, Topher had meant to ask about who he was before… though really, he didn’t have to. Not when he had Siren’s original personality schematics on his hard drive. He would look later. See if he’d always been this graceful or if it came from being completely unburdened of any sort of human personality. He’d looked at Siren’s former personality before, but not as closely as he would’ve liked. A small side project for a free-day.

Siren breezed gracefully out of the room. Before the doors were even closed, Marsden—his handler—turned on Topher. “It happened again,” he said.

And with those few words, there went Topher’s good day. “Damn,” he mumbled. Jerking his head to the side, Marsden followed him into his office. Sitting down at his computer, Topher pulled up Siren’s file and started looking over his vitals during the engagement. “How many times did you have to say it?”

“Two,” Marsden sighed.

“That’s better than last time!” He said. “Last time it was four. If this extinction rate continues—”

“And the time before that was eleven!” Marsden snapped. “It’s not an extinction rate!”

“Maybe it won’t happen again.” Even Topher knew the words were a lie, but the little optimist part of his brain that didn’t want any more work to do forced his tongue. “There should be nothing wrong with him—”

“Topher,” Marsden interrupted. “I’ve heard the stories. And I’m—what?—his fourth handler this year? And how many has he gone through total?”

“Nine,” he mumbled under his breath. Nine handlers in two and a half years… and none of those lost to field accidents. “But really, who’s counting?” Apparently, he was.

Marsden just shook his head, his hands smoothing that fancy suit. “You know that I like him, I really do. As far as actives go, he’s the easiest one out there. His engagements are never too high risk, he always has a pleasant imprint, and he’s not too hard on the eyes, but he just won’t bond with me.” Shifting his stance, Marsden tucked his arms behind himself in the typical “at ease” posture. Topher tried not to roll his eyes; he could always tell which handlers were ex-military. “If you wanna keep me with him, that’s fine, but if something does happen on an engagement and he won’t listen to any of the trigger phrases, that puts him in danger.” And that’s the last thing they wanted.

“Yeah,” Topher sighed. “You’re probably right.” He leaned back in his desk chair and pressed his palms into his eyes. “Okay, I’ll talk to Dewitt. Until we figure this out, he’ll be grounded, but you’re still with him, okay?”

“Sure,” Marsden nodded. “I hope you can figure this out soon.”

Topher just nodded, hands still covering his face. When he heard the door shut, he let his hands drop and looked at his phone. “Okay,” he sighed to himself, picking up the receiver and dialing Dewitt’s extension. “Here we go.”

Down on the main floor, Siren sat at the art station, a paintbrush held lightly between his long fingers. Using a pot of black paint, his blue-gray eyes focused tightly on every stroke. One rounded stroke, then a few sharper ones to construct the eye sockets, nose hole and jaw of a cartoon skull. When he was finished, he leaned back to peer at his painting. There was something about that skull that looked so familiar.

Tipping his head to the side—making a few of his black curls fall into his eyes—Siren tried to think of where he’d seen it before. He had a brief flash of the skull on a mantle over a fireplace, in a room filled with two chairs and a television pushed off into the corner. A couch stood against the wall, but it was the chairs that were important. One felt like his. And the other… who did the other belong to?

Before he could think about whose chair that could be, the one in the room with the skull, it was suddenly gone. Standing up, Siren abandoned the paint. He smiled at the man standing by the door. “I think I’d like to swim now.”

The man nodded and opened the door for him. He gave him a smile and walked out of the room, his bare feet rubbing against the warm, smooth wood of the floors. On his way for a swim, the skull, and that room, and the nameless, faceless person who owned that chair were completely forgotten.

 


	2. Welcome to the Dollhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's inside the Dollhouse now. But how long will it take to get them both out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again: I don't do crossovers, so this is really rare for me. Comments are much appreciated, especially about things I'm getting right/wrong.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, all mistakes are mine. See a typo? I would love to know about it.

“I have to say, Mr. Watson,” Ms. Dewitt said, smiling up at the man standing across from her. He smiled back, his soft face genuine and believable. Something made Adelle want to trust this man with her life… and she wasn’t even programmed to. “You come with the highest recommendation possible.” She set the folder down on her desk. “Only the Queen herself inspires more confidence.”

John Watson smiled. “Mycroft Holmes is always a good friend to have.”

“Quite,” she nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at the file. All the papers were in order, background check and proper certification. Even a few extras that would be more than helpful. “He seems very confident in you, and with good reason. Your background is highly impressive and useful. If only we had more handlers with your kind of skills.”

“Does that mean I have the job?” John didn’t want to be too hopeful.

Ms. Dewitt pressed her lips together. “Just one more question,” she said. John nodded. “Before Siren came here,” this was the first time she’d said his code name. All John knew was that the Dollhouse had an active with difficulty bonding with his handlers. No names, no specifics (Mycroft didn’t even know the details, which was… unprecedented) just the hope that this was the right person. “He had a very close friend named John Watson,” she tipped her head and peered at him with shrewd eyes. “What do you think that makes me conclude?”

“Yes, that would be the natural conclusion,” John said. “But that’s why Mycroft recommended me. He thought that—given the difficulty in finding a compatible handler—someone as close as possible to Dr. Watson might smooth the process a bit.” Pause. “I’m told that he was actually a difficult man. He didn’t have many friends.” Just one. “Just this Watson bloke.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Ms. Dewitt nodded. Her eyes lingered on the file. “Still, the similarities between yourself and Dr. Watson are… startling. If I hadn’t conducted the background checks myself,” yes, she investigated the other John Watson who was so close to Siren’s former life, “I would think you were the same person.”

That was the difficult part. Trying not to give himself away… while pretending to be himself. “Yes,” he smiled. “It is uncanny. But there are differences.” John Watson was an army doctor, while _Jon_ Watson was an RAF medic. Such _differences_ , and did Mycroft seriously think he was going to pull this off? No, he couldn’t think like that. Stay in character. The character of himself with slightly fewer credentials.

“Yes,” Adelle nodded. She looked at the file for another long moment before shutting it and climbing to her feet. She extended her hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Watson,” John tried to smother the grin that broke across his face. He needed to be glad for the job, but not over-eager. He’d already gotten this far, he couldn’t blow it now. “And welcome to the Dollhouse.”

 

~

 

With an organization this secret and intricate, all of John’s (fake-ish) background information was checked and was vetted at the highest levels before even setting foot in the building, so there was no need for that. Just the normal bureaucratic nonsense remained. Security passes, ID pictures, introductions. John had waited this long, he could wait a bit longer to get through this before seeing him again.

Two hours later, John was standing in the imprint room. The mad genius of the operation stood next to him, babbling on. “It’s not really science,” Topher smiled. “What I do, it’s more of an art.” His arm gave an “artful” flourish as he pulled the wipe software up, plugging it into the chair. “Some of this stuff—you wouldn’t believe it.” He smiled.

“You don’t need to sell me on it,” John said. “I’m already here.”

Topher just shrugged as he put in a few special lines of code. “Yeah well, you’ll be Siren’s tenth attempt at a handler. The art has never gone kerflewie this often, so cross your fingers.”

As if on cue, the doors opened and Siren walked into the room. “They said I had a treatment?” He said in the calm, pod person voice that they all had.

“Yes, Siren,” Topher smiled and gestured to the chair. “Please have a seat.” Siren just smiled and went placidly.

As Topher got everything set up, John could barely move. It was him. They got it right. Sherlock… it was Sherlock! Dressed in a soft cotton shirt and pajama pants, he looked like he did any other time he used to just lay around the flat. Add a blue silk dressing gown and the picture could be complete. Exactly the same, like they were back home…

It took all of John’s self control to keep from grabbing Sherlock and running… because he wasn’t Sherlock right now. He wasn’t anyone. This place, the _Dollhouse_ , had taken him away. All that beautiful intellect and that wonderful brain, gone, leaving nothing but a vacant shell.

He didn’t know how, but he managed to keep himself in check. Using the breath control exercises Mycroft had suggested, and every ounce of body-language knowledge Sherlock had taught him, John stood stock still as Topher got things ready.

He turned around a moment later and smiled up at John. “Okay! We’re ready. I hope.”

Not giving John any warning, he flicked a switch on the computer and the chair started to glow. Sherlock’s back arched in pain and his eyes fluttered. Then, as soon as it had started, it was over. The placid, empty look returned to his face (John thought that pained expression was worse, but no, it wasn’t) and the chair tipped up.

A paper waggled in front of him and John took it. “Handler/active bonding script.” Topher explained. “Just a few key phrases, also physical contact helps. Take his hand or touch his shoulder, or something.”

He turned and smiled at Sherlock, hands clasped behind him in the most non-threatening manner possible. “Hello, Siren. I’d like you to meet your new handler.” Topher nodded towards John and his eyes darted down towards the paper.

John stepped forward and went to lay his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. At the last second, he thought, no, that wasn’t right. No matter what they called him here, this was Sherlock and he was John. A shoulder wouldn’t do.

Topher’s brow wrinkled as he watched John reach out and cup Siren’s cheek, his thumb brushing across one of his prominent cheekbones. “Everything’s going to be alright.” John said. He didn’t even look at the paper.

Sherlock smiled up at him. Calm. Vacant. “Now that you’re here.”

John nodded, his thumb stroking his face a bit more. “Do you trust me?”

He didn’t notice at first, but this was where Topher started to hold his breath. Too many times, he’d watched Siren not respond to this oh so important question. The best response they’d ever gotten from him was after the handler asked the question three times. It shouldn’t take more than one.

Sherlock nodded, eyes locked on John in a way he’d never looked at anyone before. “With my life.” He whispered.

“Awesome,” Topher sighed. “Fan-tastic.” But John wasn’t listening, he was too busy staring into Sherlock’s eyes and imagining that he could see a spark of a man that was. He couldn’t. “Okay,” Topher said when John still hadn’t removed his hand. “That’s really it.” Neither man moved. “Okay.” He said again and snapped his fingers.

This seemed to bring John out of it. Reluctantly, he let his hand fall and handed the script back to Topher. “Was that good?” He asked. He didn’t even look at the programmer. Only at Sherlock.

“Yeah,” Topher nodded. “Man, they weren’t wrong about you. He’s never taken to anyone this easily.”

“Mmm,” John nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

Still with the staring. And Siren was staring back, Topher thought. That wasn’t… normal. “Siren,” he said. At hearing his name, Siren turned and finally broke eye contact with John, looking up at Topher. “Why don’t you go for a massage?”

“A massage would be relaxing,” he nodded and stood up from the chair.

Both men watched him walk out of the room, a small, calm smile on his face. “You should go with him,” Topher said to John. “The first few days of bonding are crucial. He needs to see you as much as possible. Even when he’s imprinted, he’ll trust you with his life, but making sure he knows your face will make that trust even deeper.”

“Not a problem,” John whispered. His eyes were still locked on Sherlock, watching as the graceful man floated down the stairs. A tap at his elbow was the only thing that could break his eyes away.

“That’s his file,” Topher said. John took the manila folder. “It details his past engagements and what specific kind of engagements he’s cleared for. Stuff you’ll need to know.”

“Thanks,” John smiled. He tucked the file under his arm and walked out of the imprint room, down the stairs, back to Sherlock.

That was the best part about this job: he didn’t need to fake much. The description was simple, really. He had to care about the protection, safety and health of his active—Sherlock. He had to do everything in his power to make sure his active—Sherlock—remained safe. Even before his Fall and this entire, mad prison dressed up as a voluntary program, that had been John’s job. More than that… his life. He may be pretending to be a willing participant in this, but he didn’t have to pretend to care about Sherlock. He already did.

Standing next to the massage table, John watched as some nice young woman rubbed, kneaded and stroked away whatever knots a care-free existence could cause. And the whole time, John had to keep himself from lunging at her, ripping Sherlock off the table and running. Getting out of here. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

The only thing that kept John any semblance of sane was the way Sherlock looked at him. A quick look around showed that most of the other dolls had their eyes closed during their massages, some even looked like they were sleeping. Not Sherlock. As he laid there, he looked right into John’s eyes, a light smile pulling at his lips. And John looked back.

“I’ve never seen him do that with anyone before.” The masseuse said suddenly.

The noise startled John slightly, but he didn’t pull his eyes away from Sherlock. “What do you mean?” He asked.

John saw her shrug out of the corner of his eye. “He doesn’t usually make eye contact.” She said. “Given the handler problem, it kind of made sense. But this is new.” She shifted to rub Sherlock’s lower back and he groaned. Still, he didn’t look away from John. “He must really trust you.”

“Yeah,” John nodded. “Suppose he does.”

For the rest of the day, John followed Sherlock through the various facilities the Dollhouse had to offer. He watched him do laps in the pool, watched him eat his meals, watched him go to art class, and finally, he watched him go off to the showers. That was where John’s day with him ended: he’d be going to bed now.

As he walked back to the handler area of the Dollhouse, John could feel his heart warring inside of him. After so long thinking he was dead, John couldn’t describe how happy he was to see Sherlock again; he didn’t think the English language could properly describe it. But, while watching him today had been John’s happiest day in almost three years, it was also the saddest. Watching him be so empty like that… doing things Sherlock would never do—the massage, the eating, and art class—it felt so wrong. How could he be so happy to see his best friend alive again, yet so sad at the same time? It wasn’t right, this whole place was so wrong, and John was going to get him out of here. He didn’t know how Sherlock had ended up here, but he would get him out.

In the handler’s quarters, John was just putting away his on-duty gun when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see a tall man smiling at him. Ex-military by his posture. “Hey,” he smiled, extending his hand to John. “You’re Siren’s new handler, right?”

“Yes,” he nodded and took the offered hand. “Jon Watson.”

“Phil Marsden,” he said and dropped John’s hand. “I was Siren’s last handler.”

Any politeness he had for this man now had to be faked. John couldn’t stand the thought of someone else… _managing_ Sherlock. It made him sick. “Nice to meet you,” he hoped that his smile didn’t look too forced.

“You too,” Marsden smiled. “I heard that Siren bonded with you instantly?”

“Yeah,” John nodded. “Why? He didn’t bond with you?” A small thrill of pleasure shot through him at that thought.

“No,” the other man sighed. “But I wasn’t the first.” His smile returned. “Apparently, you were. That’s great. That they finally found someone he was compatible with. Gotta tell ya, Siren was always the easiest active. Except for bonding,” he shrugged. “It just wouldn’t work with him.”

John shrugged. “I guess it just took a certain person.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Marsden smiled and sat down on the bench to start changing his clothes. “You read his file yet?”

“Been glancing at it all day,” if glancing meant memorizing. Whenever John’s eyes weren’t on Sherlock, he was reading through that file. He wasn’t sure how to feel about the information contained in it. Mostly, Sherlock was approved for “romantic” engagements (scheduled rape, more like) and John didn’t know if he should be happy for that or sad. On the one hand, he was glad that Sherlock wasn’t in harm’s way. On the other, he knew Sherlock’s feelings on sex. How would Sherlock take it? Knowing what he was being used for all these years?

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s pretty easy. Sometimes he plays a body guard, but he’s never in too much danger. The worst problem we ever had with one of his engagements was that he got food poisoning.” A shrug. “That’s about as difficult as it gets.”

“Good to know,” John nodded. Good to know that at least Sherlock wasn’t in danger. Though, how he would react to that once he… got back, was anyone’s guess. Would he be put out that he’d spent three years playing it safe? Leave it to Sherlock to find the upside of giving up his body for anyone’s use.

“Oh,” John said. “Just wanted to ask: why is his code name Siren? The file doesn’t give any reason. Are they just random?” Probably not the most important piece of information, but John didn’t know what could matter. Everything could be important.

Marsden smiled. “Usually, we name them according to the phonetics alphabet, but we have more than twenty-six dolls, so Dewitt assigns them randomly. The way Topher tells it is that it’s related to the Odyssey.”

“Figured,” John nodded. “But why?”

He just shrugged as he undid the buttons of his shirt. “You saw him. If you were Odysseus, wouldn’t you crash you boat for that?”

John didn’t even have to think about that. “Yes, I would.” He whispered.

“So how about you?” Marsden asked. “How did you get here? Because I heard,” he smiled and shook his head, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “I heard that Siren—or whoever he was before—that his brother referred you. Is that right?”

Finally, something John didn’t have to lie about. “Yes, he did.”

“Why would anyone do that?” The other man asked. His eyes raked up John slightly. If he’d heard that Sherlock’s brother had referred him, then he’d probably heard that Sherlock had a friend named John Watson. Was he going to bring that up as well?

But John did have an answer for that, and this wasn’t a lie either. “He doesn’t know what led to his brother being here, but he wants him looked after. He trusts me to do that, and he trusts that I will keep this company’s best interests in mind at the same time.” John smiled. “He just wants to know that his baby brother is going to come home safe at the end of this,” also not a lie. The end of _this_ was just going to come a lot sooner than anyone here thought.

“Right,” Marsden nodded. That seemed to placate him and he resumed his actions.

When he was changed, Marsden stood up and reached out to shake John’s hand again. Now that he knew Sherlock had been in good hands, John felt less anger towards this man. “Good luck to you,” he said.

John nodded and watched Marsden leave before turning to his locker and starting to change into his street clothes. The suit was comfortable enough (and it seemed to be the dress code around here) but he would definitely be more comfortable in his own clothes. He couldn’t wait to get back to his rented flat and wash this day off of him. Things had been so… wrong.

He said goodbye to the other handlers and headed out of the building. When he was a safe distance away (out of range of any bugs and security measures they had) John pulled out his mobile and hit speed dial three. Speed dial two was Lestrade and number one—the in case of emergency contact—was Sherlock. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too long until Sherlock was answering his phone again.

Three rings and the line picked up. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“He’s here,” John said.

Something almost like a sigh came through the receiver. “Finally,” he said. “How is he?”

“Physically?” John asked. “Fine. In perfect health as far as I can tell.” And very well pampered. “Looks like he’s gained a few pounds too.”

“How about mentally?” Mycroft asked.

That was the question John had been dreading all day. So far, he’d done a very good job at lying to himself: convinced that he’d finally found Sherlock. But no. He’d found Sherlock’s _body_. The man’s mind was still somewhere else. All those times Sherlock went on about the body being nothing but transport and that it was the mind that mattered, how perverse that one should be separated from the other like this? John wasn’t sure whether he wanted to start swinging, or start crying. He would decide when he got back to the flat.

“I’ll get him back.” He said through tight lips.

“Thank you, John.” Mycroft said.

John stopped walking. His breakdown was stalled for a bit longer as anger welled inside him again. “Let’s get something clear,” he hissed between his teeth. “I’m not here doing _you_ a favor. I’m here to rescue Sherlock. It’s your bloody fault that he ended up here in the first place,” he didn’t need to go over it. Mycroft already knew that he was a shit older brother, and if John had anything to say about it, the elder Holmes should have that on coasters. Embroidered on a fucking throw pillow. “You are here to give me what I need—anything I need—to get him back. And once he is back,” all in one piece, that lovely mind right where it belonged, “We are going back to Baker Street and you are never going to bother us again. You hear me? Not unless Sherlock calls you up and begs you to come back into his life,” they both knew that would be a cold day in Hell. “Alright?”

“Your terms are quite clear.” Mycroft said.

“Good,” John grit through his teeth. “I’ll call you if anything happens.”

“John?” Mycroft asked before he could hang up. “Just one more thing.”

Though John was loathe to give Mycroft anything ever again, part of him wouldn’t let him ignore the man. He helped John get to Sherlock in the first place.

“What?” He sighed, too exhausted to keep up his hatred any longer.

“What’s his code name?” He asked. “What are they calling him?”

“Siren,” John said.

“Ha,” Mycroft laughed, but there was no feeling behind it. “Fitting.”

“Yes,” John didn’t want to have this conversation. He wanted to be back at that empty flat, punching holes in the blank, white walls. He hoped Mycroft didn’t expect to get his security deposit back. “I’ll call you if there’s anything new.” Probably.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Take care of him, John. Get him home safe.”

“Of course,” like John could physically do anything but keep Sherlock safe.

 

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still very pissed at Mycroft, so my John is always pissed at Mycroft. Just thought I'd throw that in there.


	3. The Scientific Method

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's first engagement with John. Can he handle it?

John was staring so hard at the screen, he thought it might explode. Well, at least then he wouldn’t have to watch Sherlock’s vitals spike as he had sex.

A typical engagement for him: one movie star or another who liked having sex with her body guards after an award show, kind of like an after party with only two guests. Except that was unethical, so she hired out different actives. Tonight, it was Sherlock.

“It’s okay,” Lee, the van’s driver said with a smile, obviously taking John’s clenched, white-knuckled hands for something else. “It looks like he’s having a heart attack, but that’s just what sex does to a body.”

“I know,” John said through tight lips. “I was a doc—I mean a medic. In the RAF.” Managing to pull his eyes away for a second, he checked to see if Lee noticed the slip. He didn’t. “It’s just weird. Watching it like this.” He admitted. Weird thinking about Sherlock having sex, weird thinking about Sherlock in this position, just… weird.

Lee nodded again but didn’t look up from his book. “First engagement is always the hardest. But don’t worry, it gets easier.” John seriously doubted that.

“Have you always been Siren’s driver?” He asked. Maybe getting more information about Sherlock’s situation (and how to get him out of it) would chase away the bile rising in John’s stomach. Another spike in heart rate, higher this time.

“Yeah,” Lee said and flipped a page. “Drivers are different from handlers because we cover many actives at once, but Siren always likes having familiar faces around when he’s coming in for his ‘treatment’.” Wasn’t that true? Sherlock did love familiar faces. Most of the time, he was extra rude to any other DI at the Yard, not because he thought they were any more incompetent than all the others, but because they simply weren’t Lestrade. “He’s really easy to handle now, but he wasn’t always.”

That managed to pull John’s attention away from the monitors. “Really?” He asked. “How so?” So far, all he’d heard was that Siren was as easy as they came. It made John sad to hear about it, because Sherlock was the most difficult man he’d ever met. Difficult and amazing. Mad and brilliant. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock being anything but his same old self, and now he was working a job that would show him Sherlock being a dozen other people… messed up didn’t begin to describe this.

Lee just shrugged. “Well, for starters: the bonding problem.” Jeez, did everyone here know about that? It was probably highly unusual, but nothing John wasn’t used to. Sherlock would always be special. Stripped of his personality or no, Sherlock would always be Sherlock. “No one knows why, but he just wouldn’t bond. Made getting him back into the van pretty hard sometimes.” He shook his head. “Some of the others glitch way more than he does, but sometimes, he’ll start staring at you, and suddenly he starts telling you something completely random that he learned from the way your shirt was buttoned.”

John tried to hide his smile. Sherlock could still deduce! Even in this… state, that brain was still working full steam ahead. “That’s odd,” John said.

The driver nodded again. “Yeah, and he absolutely does not do love encounters. The client wants an active that loves them? Siren is the first one they cross off the list.”

Not unexpected, but a curiosity. John knew that Sherlock could love—very deeply—so what was keeping him from being imprinted with love? “Why do they think that is?”

“I don’t know,” Lee shrugged. “He can do every other emotion on the spectrum—lust, infatuation, hatred, outright loathing, fear, sadness, you name it. But he cannot do love.” A smile crossed Lee’s face. “His original handler told me that, when they first tried it, the personality wedge burnt up in the chair. It just wouldn’t compute with his brain.” He laughed again, louder this time. “Topher went nuts trying to figure it out. He still hasn’t. Sometimes, when he gets too caffed up, he’ll look at the security tapes again, go over all the scans, everything he can get his hands on, just to try and figure out why Siren can’t love.”

What had stated as a slightly vindicating conversation had ended somewhere John didn’t like. He knew Sherlock could love, he _knew_ it. Love is what drove him over the edge of that roof. To save the ones he loved, Sherlock had to die. He did it, and that told John more than all of Topher’s machines ever could.

After a few minutes of silence, Lee spoke again. “Not long now,” he said. “The engagement report says that she likes them to leave right after they’re done. Kind of cold.” John didn’t say anything; he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to kick Sherlock out of bed. Maybe because of his mouth. “Oh well, you should get outside to intercept him.”

“Right,” John nodded. He watched the monitors spike, plateau for a few seconds, then start to fall. It was over. Finally.

When it looked like everything really was done, John opened the door and climbed out of the van. He walked towards the actress’ house, standing at a respectable distance, but close enough to intercept Sherlock when he tried to walk towards his “car.”

It all went as smooth as you please. As soon as John stepped out of the dark and offered Sherlock “a treatment,” the man nodded and went with him into the van. They spent the rest of the ride talking.

“I can’t believe I just did that!” Sherlock said in an American accent. John tried not to flinch at yet more weirdness. “Unethical, for starters. She hired me to do a job and I—”

“Did a job?” Lee joked.

John wanted to smack him, but Sherlock got there first. “Hey man, I got in this van with you mostly because I know I could kill you if I wanted to. So keep it quiet.”

“Yes, sir,” Lee nodded, a smile still curling his lips.

“Hey,” Sherlock nudged John’s knee with his wrist, bringing his attention back. So far, he’d managed to avoid looking into those eyes. Seeing them empty was one thing (one horrible thing that John never wanted to see again) but seeing them filled with someone else, someone not Sherlock, that was somehow worse.

Swallowing his revulsion, John looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“One professional man to another,” he said. Did Sherlock think he was a body guard too? Or some sort of undercover someone? The imprint file said that he thought he was ex-Navy, doing this job for extra cash. He could not imagine Sherlock in the Navy. “How bad did I fuck up?” He whispered.

John leaned forward and settled his hand on top of Sherlock’s, which was still touching his knee. Was it because he was programmed to trust John? Or because he actually did? “Trust me, everything’s going to be fine. It’s not as bad as you think.”

A few long, slow blinks, and then Sherlock nodded. “You’re probably right.” He turned his hand over and squeezed John’s fingers a little. “I don’t know why but… I trust you.”

John chuckled softly and had to hold himself back from swiping Sherlock’s over-long curls back. “Do you trust me?” He asked.

“With my life,” Sherlock said.

With the way those eyes were locked on him—so focused, so intent—John let himself believe for a second that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t all a lie.

When Sherlock disappeared into the lift—back down into that chair to become blank and empty again—John just stood there staring at the closed doors. For some reason, he was having the most difficult time keeping it together. He would see Sherlock again, body and mind. He really, really would. So why did watching those doors close on the body guard/lover (who most definitely was not Sherlock) feel like watching him die all over again?

John hadn’t had a flashback in years. No nightmares about Afghanistan, or any other PTSD symptoms. But watching Sherlock slide away like that… John had to fight the horrors threatening to flicker behind his eyes. Images of a pale body splayed across Bart’s sidewalk, blood clinging to those dark curls, soaking them—

“Good work tonight,” John nearly jumped. Oh, just Lee.

“Yeah,” he turned around and smiled at the driver. He shouldn’t focus on the lift anyways, it would probably kill him to think about it. “You too. Good job.”

“No, really man.” He smiled. “That was amazing. It has never been that easy to get Siren back into the van.” He looked John up and down, almost as if he was trying to see whatever secret method he used to get Sherlock to listen to him. Then, he shook his head. “Amazing.”

“Thanks,” John tried to smile, he really did. “You off now?” Yes, switch the subject. The more he talked about Sherlock, the more his emotions would betray him.

“Nah,” Lee shook his head. “One more engagement. Sierra’s going out for something in an hour. Haven’t gotten the file yet.”

“Right,” John nodded.

“Say,” Lee said. John turned to see the other man looking at him, _really_ looking at him. Giving him more attention than he had all night. “Are you going to be alright with this? A couple of the other handlers told me you were referred by Siren’s brother. That true?”

“Yes,” John nodded again. “He wanted to make sure his brother would be safe during his time here.” If by _he_ , you meant John, and by _brother_ , you meant friend. His best friend.

Lee’s brow creased and he let out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the hood of the van and crossing his arms over his chest. “Let me give you some advice about this job: you can’t serve two masters here. Rule number one is to protect the actives, and protect the house. You have to be loyal to the house, do anything to keep it safe.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said quickly. Obviously, John looked angrier than he felt. He was just tired… so tired of all this looking. All he wanted was to have Sherlock back home. “But if you have loyalties to his brother, and you’re planning something,” shit, did Lee know? “Dewitt will kill you when she finds out. And they mean that literally around here.”

“Thanks for the warning,” he said, keeping his voice as even as possible. It was surprisingly easy. “But I have no loyalties to his brother.” At least that was the truth. When all this was over, John would be happy if he never saw Mycroft again. He might go to the funeral, but only to piss on his grave. He turned and looked back at the lift doors. “My only loyalties lie here. With him.” He didn’t need to say who, because they both knew.

Lee smiled. “You get loyal real quick.”

“Yeah,” John smiled back. “So I’ve been told.”

He said goodbye to Lee and walked around to the handler’s lift. They had a few bedrooms around the place for handlers who didn’t have time to go home during shifts, and John would stay in one of those tonight. If he had it his way, he wouldn’t leave the Dollhouse until Sherlock did, but that would attract attention. He would only leave as often as needed, otherwise, John wanted to stay as close to Sherlock as possible.

 

~

 

John spent the entire next day following Sherlock around again. No one questioned him because they were still “bonding,” and they more than expected him to stick around. Again, he followed him to his meals, art class, and yoga. The idea of Sherlock doing yoga was one John had never entertained. The reality of seeing it was even stranger. There was a whole two minutes where John’s brain refused to process what was in front of him. Sherlock standing there, moving into downward facing dog.

A little after noon, when Sherlock was making his way to the pool (John thought, he could just as easily get distracted and end up at the masseuse) someone walked up to John, distracting him from Sherlock for the first time in days.

“Mr. Watson?” A voice said. John turned to see a blond man in a very expensive suit stating next to him. “Laurence Dominick,” he introduced himself. “Head of security.”

“Oh right,” John smiled and shook his hand. “Good to meet you,” he’d met any number of security peons before he was even allowed into the building, so it only made sense that the head would meet with him now that he was inside. John only wished he didn’t come when he was trying to follow after Sherlock.

“Nice to meet you too.” Dominick smiled, the turned his attention to the file in his hands. “I was just reading up about Siren’s last engagement. Impressive work. He’s never taken to anyone like this.”

John shrugged. “Well, you know. Just compatible, I guess.”

“Right,” the other man nodded. He looked up from the file and the smile fell from his face. “I saw that you were referred by Mycroft Holmes. That’s a… good friend to have.” John didn’t say anything. “Look,” Dominick sighed, stepping closer. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.” That was never a good way to start a sentence. John felt himself tightening up a bit under Dominick’s gaze. “Dewitt seems sold on you and you work well with Siren, but I just want to make sure you know where you’re supposed to be loyal.” His eyes slid up and down John. “I don’t want you feeding anything back to Mycroft Holmes. You need to be loyal to this house, not to the outside contractor that got you the job.”

Why was everyone questioning his loyalty? They didn’t know him, John understood that, but not once in his life had he endured so many doubts in so few days. “Trust me,” he said. “I have no loyalty to Mycroft Holmes.” Again: not a lie. “He owed me a favor, so he got me this job. And if I had it my way, I’d never have to see the bastard again.” Also not a lie. Probably the truest thing John had ever said.

“Okay,” Dominick nodded. “Thanks for not taking it too personally.”

“No problem,” John smiled. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go find Siren.” He shrugged as he stepped away. “Topher says the first few days are the most important.” Dominick nodded and turned away. Once his back was turned, John walked as quickly as he could towards the pool, hoping Sherlock would be there.

John reached the hallway just outside of the showers and spa facilities when he saw Sherlock. Crouched down on the floor, he leaned back against the wall, wide eyes innocent and blank. “Sher—Siren?” John asked as he walked over to the man. “What are you doing?”

“I’m invisible.” He said. As if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Here,” he continued. Eyes roved over the corridor, looking at the other actives and a few of the support staff milling around. “They can’t see me when I sit here.”

John looked up too and followed Sherlock’s gaze. A few of the dolls smiled at him blankly; a handler nodded towards John and smiled down at Sherlock. “I think they can see you,” he said. John hated his tone; having to speak to Sherlock like he was slow was probably the last thing John ever thought he’d be doing. But then again, he’d had a lot of moments like that recently. He dropped his chin and looked down at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back. “And I can see you. How does that make you invisible?”

“You can see me,” Sherlock said in that pure, completely innocent voice. That part wasn’t terrible. But it was. It all was…. “They can’t.” He reached up a long arm to point to the security cameras on either side of the hall. “The magic eyes cross funny here. So this spot, where I’m sitting, they can’t see it.”

John looked up again, this time, focusing on the cameras. Damn, Sherlock was right. At their current angles, both the cameras for this hall would cross, leaving this spot—flush up against the wall—a complete blind spot.

“How did you notice that?” John asked as he turned back to Sherlock. He didn’t even try to keep the smile off his face. Sherlock was still noticing. He was still in there! Somewhere, locked in that brain, Sherlock was there!

“A long, long while ago, they were looking for me for my treatment.” He said. The strange, American accent didn’t even bother John anymore, not when Sherlock was being clever again. Oh, what he would give to hear just one more deduction. John never thought he’d be this desperate to be called an idiot. “I was sitting here, and they couldn’t find me. When I walked to art class, they found me. But not when I was here. I did it again, and they couldn’t find me. Then, I did it a third time—just to be sure—and it worked again.”

John had to physically restrain himself from reaching down and hugging Sherlock. In order for a conclusion to be considered valid, the experiment needed to be repeatable. Sherlock formed a hypothesis and conducted a repeatable experiment. Memory completely gone, mind—personality, everything—completely wiped away, and he was still using the scientific method.

“That’s good, Siren,” John was really glad no one else was around, because he was sure he was about to cry. “That’s very good.”

Sherlock smiled. “I try to be my best.

“And look,” he turned his head and laid his hand against one of the glass panels in the wall. With just a little push, it swung back, revealing a hallway behind the feng suhi interior of the Dollhouse. “When I sit here,” Sherlock continued to explain. “I feel air on the back of my neck. Where there’s air, there’s a hole. So I found the hole.”

“That’s amazing,” John whispered. He had to whisper to keep from shouting in joy. “Stand up?”

“Okay,” Sherlock said and moved gracefully to his feet. John gently took his elbow and walked them through the opening in the wall.

He barely pushed the glass closed before turning on Sherlock and taking the taller man’s face in his hands. “Sherlock?” John whispered. Tears were now running freely down his cheeks. This was the first time they’d been alone… John didn’t think he could control himself. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can hear you,” he smiled. “But my name is Siren.”

John ignored that. As gently as he could, he pulled Sherlock closer, so close, their noses were almost touching. “Sherlock? Are you in there?” He sobbed. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” Sherlock smiled again. “You’re John. I trust you. You take care of me.”

What little hope had welled up inside of John disappeared at that. Even if Sherlock was in there, he was so deeply buried that only Topher’s machines could get him out. John didn’t fancy taking this place at gun point (not while it was staffed with ex. Army, ex. FBI, ex. police, name a branch, they were probably here) but the longer he watched and the more he learned, the more that looked like the only option.

“Yes,” John let his eyes fall closed as he accepted defeat. He was on his own here. “I do. I take care of you.”

“You always have,” Sherlock said. John’s eyes flew open to see those striking blue irises looking back at him. This time, instead of the normal, placid look, Sherlock’s forehead was creased, his eyes squinted in something that looked like concentration. Was he remembering something? “You take care of me, John. John… Hamish… Watson.”

John gulped. His fake name for this job was Jonathan David Watson. Even with the extensive background checks they’d all done on Dr. John Watson, he hadn’t heard his middle name mentioned once, and he doubted that Dewitt would’ve said the name in front of any of the dolls, let alone the active John was assigned to.

He was remembering. Sherlock remembered him.

“Sherlock,” John let his eyes fall shut again and pulled back to press a kiss to the taller man’s forehead. “I will get you out of here. I promise. I will get you out of here.”

“Thank you, John.” Now that he knew Sherlock was still in there, the pod-person tone didn’t bother him as much.

After another moment, he relinquished his hold on Sherlock and let him stand up straight again. He smiled down at John, still as vacant as ever. “Shall I go swimming now?” He asked.

Once again, John closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he sighed and reached out to push the glass open again. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Sherlock smiled at him and walked out of their secret room. He turned and walked towards the spa, where the pool was. John followed. It was good to see that some things hadn’t changed. Back in London—back in the real world, not this mad house—Sherlock would run and John would follow. Now, even with the man mostly gone, John would still follow Sherlock wherever he went. Because no one else could keep Sherlock safe.

 

To be continued


	4. Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another engagement... John just wants it all to end soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual: not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. See a typo? Tell me about it!

“Hello Siren,” Topher greeted as the chair rose up.

Sherlock’s now-blank face blinked over at him. “Did I fall asleep?” He asked. John had spent most of the past two days telling himself that seeing someone else’s mind (fabricated or not) in Sherlock’s body was the worst thing ever. But as soon as he was wiped and he opened those blank, vacant eyes, John was reminded that no, this was worse. This would always be worse.

“For a little while,” Topher smiled.

“Shall I go now?” Sherlock asked.

“If you like,” the programmer shrugged. Sherlock gave him a happy (empty) smile and got out of the chair. He walked past John and started wandering down the stairs.

Before John could make a move to follow him, Topher called back his attention. “He needs his post-engagement physical. Go catch him and bring him to Dr. Saunders.”

John had no problem with that, but the timing was weird. “After his last engagement,” he said. “He didn’t have his physical until the next day. Why the rush now?”

Topher just shrugged, already busy on his computer. “The last engagement was a heterosexual encounter. For the male actives, that physical can wait a little bit. This encounter was a homosexual romantic encounter,” yes, John remembered. Though, he wouldn’t call it _romantic_. Seeing Sherlock all dressed up in leather as a Dominatrix (was there a male version of that word?) was a sight he’d been trying to scrub from his mind all weekend. “Given the personality I made, it’s probably not an issue, but a physical always becomes top priority after a chance of penetrative sex.” Topher’s brow wrinkled. “Shouldn’t you have read this in the handler’s manual?”

“Yes, I did.” No, he didn’t. “Slipped my mind I guess.” He shot Topher a smile, already making his way out of the office. “I’m new here, cut me some slack?”

Not waiting for Topher’s reply, John jogged down the stairs to catch Sherlock before he could get too far. He found Sherlock and reached out to grab his wrist to stop him. “Siren,” he was so glad his code name started with an S as well, else he’d never get it right and everything would be blown. “You need to go see Dr. Saunders now.” He said in that firm, yet soft tone he’d heard the other handlers use with their actives. He probably didn’t need to (because Sherlock would listen to him no matter what) but John did need to play the part. He needed to do what everyone else did. To look every bit like he was onboard with this.

“Alright,” Sherlock smiled. He followed John willingly as they walked to the doctor’s office. As they went, John did not let go of Sherlock’s wrist.

They walked into the office and John handed the engagement file to Dr. Saunders. The young woman gave him a smile that was a little too short, and much too sad, before turning to Sherlock. “Hello, Siren,” funny, she gave him a real smile. “Could you sit up on the table please?” Sherlock nodded and hopped up on the table.

John’s eyes went wide when he saw Dr. Saunders pull the stirrups out from the sides of the exam table. “Is that really necessary?” He asked. The idea of Sherlock enduring more poking and prodding than he did on his last engagement made John’s stomach turn.

The doctor shot him a cold, cutting glare. “That’ll be all. Siren,” she turned back to look at Sherlock. “I’m going to give you a sheet to cover your legs. Please take your pants off.”

“Yes Dr. Saunders.” Sherlock smiled, then went quickly to shed his pajama pants.

John turned away before Sherlock even moved. Sure, he’d seen Sherlock naked before. They shared a flat and a bathroom (and there was that time at Buckingham Palace) and all those times he’d had to stitch Sherlock up after he did something stupid, but seeing it like this, when he was… compromised. John wasn’t comfortable with that. Nor was he comfortable with someone else seeing it.

“You need to leave,” she said in a voice as sharp as her face. “These exams are private.”

“Please,” Christ, John was very nearly pleading now. Anything to stay by Sherlock’s side. “It’s just—I’m new. I’m his new handler, and I just want to know that he’s alright. If I managed to screw up on one of our first engagements…” he hoped that might sway her. He wasn’t worried that he’d screwed up, he just didn’t want to leave Sherlock. Not in this vulnerable state, not in this strange doctor’s office, especially not in stirrups.

Dr. Saunders gave him a hard look for a long moment before nodding. “Fine,” she said and jerked her chin towards the head of the exam table. “Stand up by his head.”

Right, so he wouldn’t see. That would be improper. In the doll state, Sherlock was as helpless as a child. Actually watching her give him a rectal exam would be so inappropriate. How bad was it that John wanted to anyways? Just to make sure everything was going well. In fact, a little part of his mind was running through plausible arguments that would make her let him conduct the exam. Things were too different here, too many foreign fingers pressing against Sherlock’s skin while he was out on an engagement, he didn’t need it while he was in the house.

Somehow, John managed to keep his mouth shut and walked around to stand by Sherlock’s head. Without even thinking, he reached down and took Sherlock’s hand. This earned him a raised eyebrow from Dr. Saunders. “He hasn’t been traumatized,” she said. The hint of anger in her voice was probably matched by her expression, but John wouldn’t know. He was too busy looking at Sherlock. And Sherlock looked back.

“I know,” he said, the fingers of his other hand running over Sherlock’s knuckles in a way that always made him smile. It still did. “But he likes it.”

Dr. Saunders’ eyes flicked between John and Sherlock. “Siren,” she said. “Do you like Mr. Watson holding your hand?”

“I like John,” Sherlock said. His hand squeezed John’s. “He keeps me safe.”

Dr. Saunders shook her head. “Three days and he’s like this? You must be an amazing handler.” John said nothing.

The exam went on. Every once and a while, Sherlock’s face would pinch in discomfort. Not pain, which John was glad for. He guessed Dr. Saunders really knew what she was doing; he shouldn’t have been so quick to judge.

When she was finally finished, she lowered the sheet and stood up from the stool, smiling at Sherlock. “You can get dressed now.”

“Thank you, Dr. Saunders,” Sherlock said and hopped off the table. John turned his back again as Sherlock pulled his pajamas back on. “Shall I go now?”

“Yes,” she said. “Why don’t you go have lunch?”

“I am hungry,” Sherlock nodded and wandered out of the room.

Once again, John moved to follow him, but the doctor called him back. “That was impressive,” she said. He turned to look at her. Arms crossed over her chest, John didn’t know if “impressive” was meant as a compliment.

He gave a shrug and forced a small smile. “Well you know, it’s the job.” Again, he tried to step towards the door.

“No, it’s not.” Dr. Saunders said. “Most handlers wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t hold the active’s hand, much less try to stay during the physical.” Her mouth thinned into a hard line. “If you think that staying in here will help you cover up anything inappropriate—”

“No!” John snapped, a little too loudly. “I would never—that’s—” he cut himself off before he really started yelling.

Taking a second to calm down, John brought his eyes back up to meet Dr. Saunders’ gaze. “As an organization, we’ve been entrusted with the care of these people. _I’ve_ been entrusted with the care of that person,” he pointed out the door, in the direction Sherlock had disappeared. “That man, whoever he was before,” _Sherlocksherlocksherlock_ “Trusted this company to care for him in his most vulnerable state. This company trusted me with that responsibility. To return that body to the man in anything less than showroom condition would be worse than a breach of trust. Worse than unethical. It would be _evil_.” Just like every other thing this fucking place was doing.

“I promised to protect that man,” so many times, in so many different ways, all without words. Sherlock and John had never needed words. “And if that means I have to endure people thinking that I’m too close to my active, or thinking that I’m being inappropriate when I’m just trying to keep him safe, then I’ll have to deal with that.”

Finally at the end of his little tirade, John smoothed his jacket to cover the calming breath he took. “Now is that all?” He asked. “Because I should really see to Siren.”

“Yes, that will be all.” She nodded.

“Thank you,” John nodded, and turned to leave the office.

“You know,” she said. John was right at the door, almost out. But he stopped and turned again. Dr. Saunders busied herself straightening a few of the files on her desk, not looking at him. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“Yeah,” John nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

 

~

 

Another day, another engagement. John stood next to the chair, smiling down at Sherlock as Topher got things ready. After a few weeks inside the Dollhouse—still looking for weaknesses in their security and finding none—John knew what was expected of him in almost any situation. And right now, standing next to Topher, he knew that staring down at Sherlock and not speaking would raise red flags.

“Any specifics I should know about this one?” He asked. “Other than what’s in the file.” Asking Topher open-ended questions like that really was the easiest way to get information. The man loved bragging about his own genius.

A wide smile flooded the programmer’s face. “This is actually something I’ve never done before,” he said.

John looked down at the file again. “It’s just a party,” he said. “You’ve never sent an active to a party before?”

“Of course I have,” Topher said. “But it’s the _kind_ of party. Murder mystery! The client wanted a really authentic who-done-it kind of dinner theatre.”

“Right,” John nodded, he still didn’t get it. “So what? Are you making him some kind of amazing ex-cop, or detective? Something like that?” Wouldn’t that be a sight? Sherlock as a cop that even Lestrade would like.

“Better,” the manic smile on Topher’s face should’ve prepared John. But it really, really didn’t. “I made him a consulting detective!”

John’s blood froze in his veins. “You—” he stammered.

“Yeah,” Topher smiled and pointed down to Sherlock. “Apparently, whoever he was before invented the job. And his brain scan,” he bent back in what John would call ecstasy. John did appreciate someone admiring Sherlock’s intellect, but right now he was too busy trying not to throw up. “This guy was a genius! And I don’t say that too often. He had so many different amazing facets to his personality,” Topher shook his head, apparently at a loss for words. “I kind of can’t wait until his contract is up, because I really want to talk to this guy again. If I could just tell him that his brain is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, my life will be complete.” At least John couldn’t fault him for that; Sherlock did have the most beautiful mind the world had ever known.

He fell silent and went back to calibrating the chair. Good, John thought, because he really did need a moment. “So,” he finally managed to say. “You’re using his original personality for this engagement?” Dare John think that this was his chance? As soon as they were out of here, they could run. Sherlock would be whole again and they could just run, run back to London and forget this whole thing had ever happened.

“No,” the one word brought John’s hopes crashing down again. “Just one aspect of his former personality. All of it put together to form the perfect detective,” he smiled.

Sherlock was already the perfect detective, John thought angrily. Perfect in so many ways.

“Okay,” Topher smiled. “Here we go.” And then he turned on the chair. Sherlock’s back arched as he was filled with another new personality. A person who was partly him. John didn’t know what to think about that.

As he waited for the imprint to finish, another horrifying thought occurred to him: if part of Sherlock was in there, did that mean he would recognize John as more than just his handler? Would he remember parts of their life? Would he blow this whole thing?

The chair clicked off and slowly rose. Sherlock blinked and John held his breath.

“Come along, John,” were the first words out of his mouth. Shit, shit, shit. They were found out.

John didn’t even have time to form a plan—grab Sherlock and run? knock Topher out, then run?—when Topher spoke. “I programmed it so that he’d recognize you as his assistant,” he smiled and John relaxed. “He’s naturally suspicious, so if he saw someone milling around the party who’s not on the guest list, he would probably go off mission. So now you’re part of the game. Fun, right?” Topher smiled. Jeez, John thought, he really had no clue about any of this, did he?

“Right,” John nodded. “That’s fine.”

“John!” Sherlock demanded again. A bit of his accent had returned, but it wasn’t the same. It did make John feel a little better, though. His long legs swung over the side of the chair as he stood up. He even moved like Sherlock did… John didn’t think he could handle this night. “Hurry! We’re going to be late and I still need to change.” Pointed blue eyes looked down at the soft cotton pajamas with disgust. At least _that_ was still different.

“Yeah, no problem.” John said and pointed Sherlock to the lift.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he sighed. “That there’s been such a dearth of real cases that I’m reduced to doing dinner parties,” Sherlock curled his lips in a sneer. “Tragic.”

As soon as the doors in front of them were closed, John turned and looked up at Sherlock. “Sherlock?” He whispered. “Is that—”

“Not here,” he whispered. Eyes still front, Sherlock didn’t look at him. But then again, he didn’t need to. “We have work to do tonight.”

John let out a breath and turned to face front as well. “Okay.” He sighed. “Right.” The Work. The Work always had to come first. For how perverse this situation was, John couldn’t help his smile. Even if the man next to him was only _part_ Sherlock, there was still enough in there to keep John going. He could get his friend back, he really could.

 

To be continued


	5. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While on an engagement, Mycroft decides to throw a wrench into John's plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, not betaed or Brit-picked. See a typo? Tell me about it! And enjoy. :)

This was sick. Beyond sick.

On their ride to the party, Sherlock talked nonstop. Deducing the driver, telling their path by the different turns the van took. It was all so normal—so Sherlock—that John couldn’t hide his smile. Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Honestly, John, you look as if I’ve never done this before.”

“I don’t know,” John shrugged. “It’s always good to hear you deduce. It’s fun.”

“Yes, well,” he rolled his eyes. “I have a feeling that these will be my most complex deductions all night. How long is this party supposed to be?”

John looked down at the file. Right under his name (Sherlock Lexington Krall, jeez that was a mouth full) John read the mission parameters. “We get there at seven, and the _victim_ won’t _die_ until a little after eight. Sorry to say, but you can’t solve _the crime_ until after ten.” He looked at his watch. “You have to drag it out for two hours.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock sighed and flopped back in his seat. “Tonight is going to drag on, isn’t it?”

They arrived at the party pretty as you please. It was a large house (it would be) and looked very suited for a murder mystery. John showed the man at the door their invitation and their letter from the client, giving explicate instructions to give them whatever they might need, and then they walked inside.

Just when John thought this would be an okay night, things took a turn for the surreal. Sick, disgusting, downright repulsively surreal.

As soon as they walked into the living room, John froze. Standing by the mantel, scotch already in his hand. Mycroft. Fucking Mycroft. Mycroft bloody Holmes was a guest at this party.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice that his brother was standing on the other side of the room from them. Instead, he was looking over by the windows, a giant, fake smile plastered across his face. “I see the hostess. Best to get this started.” He sighed again and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Feel free to enjoy yourself. I doubt I’ll be needing you for this. No actual body for you to examine, doctor.” John gave a tight nod and saw Sherlock walk away. He drifted over to speak to the client, leaving John to glare at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled and tipped his glass. Smug bastard.

Taking a few calming breaths (and then a few more) John managed to collect himself. If collect himself meant squash the urge to throttle Mycroft right there. At least then Sherlock would get his actual murder, though it wouldn’t be much of a mystery to solve.

He reached the mantle and slid into place next to Mycroft. John’s eyes didn’t waiver from Sherlock—who was doing an excellent job pretending to be interested in the party—and spoke between his teeth. “What the bloody fuck are you doing here?” He nearly spat.

“I am friends with the Lady of the house,” Mycroft said and took a sip of his drink. “She invited me. She thought my attention to detail would help her set up _the crime_.” He chuckled. Like this was a normal conversation and not the surreal hell it really was.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” John whispered. While he and Mycroft had their oh so pleasant conversation, Sherlock milled around and spoke to people. This man (part Sherlock, part who knows what) seemed to be much better at faking small talk than the original. “I have things covered. If I need anything, I will call. Unless,” he broke his eyes away from Sherlock and glared up at Mycroft. “Unless you get off seeing your little brother like this? Helpless, on someone else’s leash?”

The calm expanse of Mycroft’s face disappeared quickly, replaced by barely concealed anger. He turned around to face the fireplace and finally met John’s eyes. “I know your feelings towards me, John,” he whispered. “But don’t for one moment think that I don’t care about my brother. You only have a casual understanding of our relationship from his end of things.” Another sip of scotch, larger this time. “I know that I did something horrible. It is entirely my fault that he is here, but as your presence proves, I am trying to atone for my transgressions.”

John would never forgive Mycroft for his hand in what Moriarty did, but for a moment, he understood. Mycroft was the reason he was here, he found Sherlock and sent John in, and John would forever be in the man’s debt for helping him get his friend back. But that didn’t mean he had to be nice. Civil would do… for tonight.

“So why are you here?” John asked again. Mycroft still hadn’t given him an answer. Not a real one, anyways.

“Emily Vance is a friend,” he said. John rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth, about to snap at Mycroft for playing games, but the older man kept going. “Her new husband, however, is not.” A sip of his scotch, a casual swirl of the glass and a nod to another guest before he spoke again. “Victor Kaleif used to be a rather unsavory character. For years, the British government had inklings that Kaleif might be connected to more than a dozen arms rings. Including the one headed by one Jim Moriarty,” John’s eyes went wide and Mycroft nodded.

“My office was watching him very closely. Naturally, it sent up red flags that, two days after the supposed death of Richard Brook, Kaleif suddenly disappeared.” Another sip of his scotch. “The man Emily married is named Charles Kamp.” He turned and peered over his shoulder where the man in question—Victor Kaleif—had his arm around the hostess as they both spoke to Sherlock.

John looked as well, and started reading Sherlock’s subtle body language: shifting of his weight to back away from the man ever so, hands clasped together behind his back. And when he threw his head back to laugh at something _Mr. Kamp_ said, he retreated another inch. Even if Sherlock didn’t know what was wrong with this man, he knew something was up.

He turned back to speak to Mycroft. “You think that he wants revenge?” He whispered. “That he’s going to kill Sherlock here to avenge Moriarty?” John hadn’t imagined having to shoot the hostess’ husband tonight, but if Sherlock was in danger… let’s just say he was quickly warming to the idea.

“You’d never get the shot off.” Mycroft said. John tried not to roll his eyes; he really hated that Holmes’ mind-reading thing. “There are at least six armed guards in this room, and ten more in the house and over the grounds somewhere—three of them are mine. Besides, that isn’t their objective.”

“Then what is?” John asked.

“Now that Moriarty is dead, the rest of his organization has gone to ground.” He nodded towards Kaleif. “Many of them managed to get themselves into places of comfort and prestige, and they are all clients of the Dollhouse.” John froze and Mycroft nodded. “I’ve never understood my brother. I am comfortable enough to know that he is smarter than I, and I don’t make a habit at guessing what kind of mad plans that mind of his can come up with.”

“But you think this is a plan?” John managed to squeak out. The idea of Sherlock ending up here willingly was… disturbing.

“Possibly,” Mycroft said. “But I won’t speculate.”

“No, you will,” John snapped. So far, their conversation had been private, but the slight jump in John’s volume caused one of the other guests to look over at them. John put on a smile and nodded, then waited for the guest to pass by before resuming yelling—quietly—at Mycroft. “You will speculate the hell out of Sherlock’s plan. Because right or wrong, it’s still more information. Information you’ve been keeping from me. You want me to get him out, yes?”

Mycroft’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes,” he said.

John took a moment to appreciate the look on his face: the tight jaw, the eyes that were too calm. All of it was Mycroft trying desperately to hide his emotions—normally, it worked, but not anymore. For once, Mycroft’s goals aligned with John’s: rescue Sherlock from the mess he’d gotten himself into. John understood that keeping one’s emotions in _this_ situation was not an easy thing, still, the satisfaction of seeing Mycroft so out of control was not lost on John.

“Then tell me,” he said softly. “What do you think Sherlock’s planning?”

Mycroft took another large sip of his drink before dropping his chin and looking at John. “For the first few months after he faked his death, Sherlock worked on tracking down whatever remained of Moriarty’s network. When he found they’d all disbanded—gone underground, made themselves new lives, what have you—he managed to find the one organization they were all connected to.”

“The Dollhouse,” John whispered.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I suspect that Sherlock reached an agreement with someone inside. Perhaps the programmer, or Adelle Dewitt herself.” Then, he dropped John’s eyes. “I don’t know anything else after that. Though, I suspect that, in a few weeks time, I may be hearing from Emily about how her new husband was arrested on drug charges. Sherlock was always very good at planting evidence whenever it suited him."

For a brief moment, John’s heart swelled. Sherlock had planned this—maybe. It wasn’t some unfortunate situation that led him here (John knew the procedure, how they got the volunteers… what Sherlock could’ve done that was bad enough made his skin crawl) but possibly part of his own design.

John turned to look at Sherlock again, a new smile on his face. He watched the tall man gesture softly as he spoke to the hostess and couldn’t help the happiness that welled inside of him. If Sherlock was trying to track down Moriarty’s network, maybe he was still conscious in all of this. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock was still in there. Somewhere.

The rest of the party went on as planned. At five after eight, one of the guests “died.” Clutching his throat in an over elaborate fake poisoning, he fell to the ground. Sherlock was on the scene immediately, raising his voice so his deductions could reach the whole room. He did need to call on John after all—to help him slow down the evidence. Of course, Sherlock had known who was going to “die” as soon as he walked into the party. He also knew that the “poison” was going to be concealed in a secret compartment in the hostess’ locket, planted there by the real “murderer” to frame her. At exactly one minute past ten, Sherlock announced that the man’s wife was responsible for his murder. John was surprised he’d been able to hold out that long. The woman played along, smiling, laughing and rubbing up against Sherlock as he put her in handcuffs and handed her off to some of the household staff dressed up as police. The guests clapped and—ever the showman—Sherlock took a bow.

They milled around the party for a little longer, but at around eleven, John knew they had to get back. He went over and offered Sherlock his treatment and Sherlock smiled. He excused himself from the group he was speaking to and said goodnight to the hostess before following John out and into the van. Neither spared a passing glance for Mycroft.

Back in the van, Sherlock collapsed into his seat. “That was a nightmare,” he sighed, letting his eyes fall closed.

“Yeah,” John nodded. “I saw how much you hated having to draw it out. Let me guess, you knew the solution as soon as you saw the scuffing on the butler’s shoes?”

Sherlock smirked. “Actually, it was when I saw that the stones on the front path were disturbed, but the butler’s shoes confirmed it. You’re getting better.”

John shrugged. “I learned from the best.” Not a lie. Sherlock had taught him everything… and whatever the genius didn’t know, John had been there for him. It was a wonderfully symbiotic relationship. One he hoped they’d have back soon.

He looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. There was something new there… something John couldn’t quite understand. The something new was explained when Sherlock leaned forward and placed a hand on John’s thigh, just scant inches away from his crotch. “What do you say that, after my treatment, we go home and have a night in?” He said, his voice rumbling warm and low.

Long fingers squeezed John’s thigh, raising a lump in his throat. “Uh,” he stammered. But John didn’t get a chance to say anything. Leaning forward, Sherlock was suddenly a hair’s breadth away. Close enough to kiss him. The soft smile and sparkling eyes that looked at him were almost too much. Then, Sherlock leaned forward to cover that little space and went to actually kiss him.

“What are you doing?” John whispered. His hand was on Sherlock’s chest, pushing him away before John knew what was happening.

Confusion wrinkled Sherlock’s brow and doubt filled his eyes. “I thought you were in the mood?” He asked. His eyes roved over John, taking in everything and starting to calculate. “Earlier, in the lift, it… seemed like you were in the mood.”

“What, what do you mean?” John closed his eyes and shook his head as he tried to clear away the thoughts there. This night was quickly becoming too much. First, having a bit of Sherlock here with him, and then bloody Mycroft at the party, and now Sherlock was coming on to him? Was this Topher’s idea of a joke?

“In the lift,” he said again. “Your pupils were dilated, respiration heavy and irregular, and your voice was half an octave deeper. And,” Sherlock swallowed, his eyes flicking from John’s eyes to his lips. “You called me Sherlock.”

“That’s your name,” John said. It was, wasn’t it? That’s what the file said.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “But most people call me Lexington. _You_ only call me Sherlock when you want to—” he cut himself off and looked at John again. “I’m sorry John.”

As Sherlock started pulling away, John realized his mistake. Whatever part of Sherlock that was still in there was reaching out to him any way he could. Trying to be close. And when it was filtered through the complicated crap of whatever Topher shoved in his head, the signal got a little muddled and turned into a come on. Christ.

“No,” John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist before he could pull it away. “I’m sorry, I forgot about earlier.” Really, he did. “The party was just… strange.” Yes, that was one word for it.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, looking him up and down again. This time, those all seeing eyes were cataloging all of John’s tensions, as if he were trying to figure out what had taken his _assistant_ (and apparently lover) out of the mood. “I saw you speaking with a man. It didn’t look like a pleasant conversation.”

“No,” John said. “It wasn’t.”

For the rest of the ride, Sherlock kept his hand on John’s thigh, and John let it stay there. They didn’t look away from each other until the van stopped and Sherlock had to go for his “treatment.” He gave John a small wave as the lift doors closed.

As soon as Sherlock was gone, John turned and went to the handler’s lift. After Sherlock was wiped, he planned to have words—many loud words—with Topher about what the hell just happened.

Sherlock had just wandered off when John barged into the office. “What did you do?” John growled.

“What?” Topher asked. “What do you mean? Did it not go well?”

“Oh no, it went fine,” John sighed. “Until on the way back here, he came on to me!”

Topher’s mouth dropped open. “What?” He asked.

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that crap. Was this your idea of a joke? To have him and his _assistant_ in some sort of relationship? Did you think that would make him trust me more?” John wasn’t planning on being this angry. Then again, he didn’t expect Sherlock to try and kiss him in the van. Memories of their first night together—their last night—threatened to flicker behind John’s eyes. He’d managed to burry those feelings as deep as they would bloody well go, to be revisited when, and only when Sherlock was back in his arms again. And now some two-bit boy genius was fucking around with him like this? John wasn’t just angry, he was livid.

“Whoa! Whoa! Time out!” Topher waved his hands around. “I didn’t do anything like that. I just made him into the world’s most brilliant detective, with you as his assistant.” He arched an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“He,” John sighed. He didn’t want to tell Topher. As angry as this made him, he didn’t want to let this man in on any of his private time with Sherlock. Even if it wasn’t _his_ Sherlock. “He tried to kiss me. He seemed to think we were together.”

Topher’s face fell. “That’s not good,” he said and bolted to his computer. Bringing up the last imprint, his eyes flew over the screen, trying to find the flaw. “There’s nothing in there that would make him think that!” Topher said after a moment of intense looking. “I made it, I would know!” He spun around in his chair and looked back at John. “Did _you_ do anything?”

A lump rose in his throat and Sherlock’s deductions came back to him: pupils dilated, irregular breathing, and lowering his voice. “He said that—in the lift—he thought…” Topher’s eyebrows climbed higher and John decided to turn on the offensive. “You made him the most observant man in the world and you didn’t expect him to think I liked him?”

“Do you?” Topher asked. “Because that’s really, really against policy.”

“I was excited for the mission!” John nearly yelled. “I was getting tired of playing his pimp,” he said. “So I was happy that we finally had something where he didn’t need to spread his legs.”

Topher’s eyes narrowed. “Okay,” he nodded slowly. “If you have a problem with romantic engagements, then this is clearly the wrong active for you.”

“I don’t have a problem with them,” he spat between his teeth. John let his eyes fall shut; he couldn’t look at Topher any longer. “I was just glad for the change. But that’s not the point: he seemed to think that we were already _together_.” He opened his eyes again. Part of him relished the confused look on the genius’ face, but it didn’t make anything better. “And that’s your department.”

“Yeah,” Topher nodded. He leaned back in his computer chair and looked at his monitors. He seemed to buy John’s story (but it wasn’t a story, it was what happened) and was now focused on working the problem. “I’ll take a look at everything and get back to you, okay?”

“Sure,” John nodded. “Thanks.”

He turned and walked out of the office and straight to the changing room. He didn’t usually go home because he didn’t want to leave Sherlock, but after tonight, he just couldn’t… this was all too much. John needed to know what Sherlock’s plan was, but only Sherlock knew that, and Sherlock was currently stored on a wedge somewhere in Topher’s office. If John could get to his original personality wedge—get a copy, anything—then he could get Sherlock into the chair and finally get them out of here.

But he couldn’t think about that right now. Now, he needed to go back to the empty flat and sleep for a week. He needed all the strength he could get just to stand this job.

 

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!


	6. Sherlock Holmes Will Always Be Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's glitching, and maybe that's John's way in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, not betaed or Brit-picked. See a typo? Tell me about it. :)

“I can’t find anything,” Topher said.

With a roll of his eyes, John folded the newspaper down over his lap, carefully concealing the article about how socialite Emily Vance’s husband turned out to be the arms dealer that the UN had been looking for, for the past three years. Mycroft was right. Somehow, Sherlock had used that engagement to plant evidence… John just didn’t know how.

He sighed and gave Topher a patient smile. He’d stopped jumping when people around here spoke to him weeks ago, and when dealing with Topher, well, it was just like dealing with Sherlock… in twelve-year-old boy form.

“What can’t you find?” John asked. His eyes flicked away from the genius to check on Sherlock again; he was still in the same place, in yoga class, calmly following along with the instructor.

He brandished a folder at John. “I checked his imprint and all the composite parts. There was _nothing_ in there that would’ve made him come on to you.” John took the folder and looked over the brain scans from the imprint, so he missed the calculating glare Topher threw his way. “I’ve checked everything, and it wasn’t on my end. That can only mean that _you_ did something to make it happen. And that puts us back at things being massively inappropriate!”

John sighed again and looked back up at Topher. “I didn’t do anything except my job. And remember, he thought we were already in a relationship. How exactly could I convince him of that?”

Topher stopped talking for a moment—a rare occurrence—and finally nodded. “You’re right. It’s just…” he turned and looked at Sherlock, his face heavy with as much worry as Topher was capable of. “He never glitches like this. His worst glitch was that he wouldn’t take to the call and response, but you solved that!” A tired hand scrubbed across his face, resting on his jaw. “I just don’t know what it could be.”

And John saw his opening.

“Topher,” he said, stepping closer to the man. “Why don’t you let me have a look at his original personality and all of his imprints? You said it yourself: the guy’s brain was amazing.” Wonderful, beautiful, glorious. “Maybe a little bit of the original has been carried over somewhere. It can’t hurt to let me look, right?”

Wide eyes looked back at John. Too far? He wondered. But no, he couldn’t stop now. Six weeks inside the Dollhouse was unacceptable. He needed to start taking serious steps towards getting Sherlock out of here.

Topher was silent for a long time, doing nothing but staring at John like he’d sprouted another head. “Topher,” John said in his most doctorly voice. “I’m not trying to mess with your system,” except he was. “I want to help you solve this as much as you want to solve it. And I know that you’re the master of all this, so you know Siren’s programming inside and out, but I’m the one with him every day. I might put together something with his behavior. It’s worth a shot right?”

Topher looked unmoved. He kept staring at John with those wide eyes. Finally, he pulled his hand away from his mouth to latch onto his collar. “My office. Now.” He didn’t wait for John’s answer, just turned on his heel and walked up the stairs.

Well, that was the sternest voice John had ever heard from Topher. Maybe he had gone too far? Oh well, nothing to do but ride it out and try to come out on top. As soon as he had access to Sherlock’s original personality, he could start taking steps to getting them out of here.

He followed Topher up the stairs, into the office that looked more like a daycare centre. “Shut the door.” Topher said from over by the computer. He pressed a button and the shades closed. John had never seen the windows of Topher’s office shut up like that. What was going on?

John turned to see Topher sitting at his desk, the light from his monitors illuminating his face in a very creepy way. “Do you know what happened to the last handler who asked to see his active’s original personality?” Topher asked. “He got sent to the Attic.”

A lump rose in John’s throat. He’d heard about the Attic… and what he’d heard wasn’t good. “Are you threatening me, Topher?” He asked quietly. As surreptitiously as he could, John pulled his hands behind his back and let his knuckles rub over the grip of his back-up gun. He wasn’t ready for this, but it wasn’t completely unexpected. He could manage.

“What I’m saying,” Topher’s face softened and he looked away from John, focusing on his computer. “Is that, with any other handler, I would’ve shouted for security down on the main floor.”

“Alright,” John nodded and tried to understand what was happening, but it got him nowhere. What was Topher on about?

“I’m saying,” he continued. “That there’s only one reason I’m even considering your request: because Siren trusts you.” One of those manic, yet familiar smiles stretched across the other man’s face. “Siren has never trusted anyone. Not even me. And he’s programmed to trust me! They all are! But he’s the only one it never took with!”

Now they were getting off track. “Topher,” John pulled his hand away from his spare gun and stepped a little closer to the desk. “Come on, bring it back. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

He looked back at his computer and started shifting through imprint files. Then, after a moment, he handed a digital tablet to John. “That’s all of his imprints.” He said. “I’ve been over everything with a fine-toothed comb, but maybe you’ll find something.”

“Okay,” John nodded. “Right, thanks. Now what about his original?” Since it looked like Topher wasn’t going to have him arrested (or sent to the Attic) John didn’t feel bad about pressing his luck. He had half of the puzzle, now all he needed was the other.

To John’s surprise, Topher shook his head. “Look through that stuff, and if you can’t find anything, then… we can talk. Okay?”

“Right,” John nodded and tried not to let his disappointment be heard. Baby steps were still steps. He couldn’t expect this to all come together at once. “Do these include all the engagement reports as well?” John had another theory he wanted to investigate. Something told him that Victor Kaleif wasn’t the first relative of one of Sherlock’s clients to suddenly be arrested. If he could cross reference the names with public arrest records, maybe he could put Sherlock’s plan together. Maybe.

“Yeah,” Topher nodded. “It’s all in there.”

 

~

 

John went back to the rented flat that night. Sherlock didn’t have any engagements scheduled until the day after next, and he didn’t exactly want Dollhouse cameras watching him as he went through these files.

Right off the bat: something was odd. Nearly every engagement Sherlock had (all fake names: Paul Carter, Joseph Miller, Daisy Marshal, names designed to sound _too_ American) less than two weeks later, the client was always found to be connected to one of Moriarty’s former networks. So Mycroft was right: Sherlock was using his engagements to get in, plant evidence, and then have Moriarty’s network arrested. One by one, he was getting rid of them.

John’s heart swelled and years of tension seemed to melt away when he connected these dots. Sherlock wasn’t here because of something he did, but because of something he was doing. And someone inside the Dollhouse was helping, which made John’s job a whole lot easier. If Sherlock had an ally inside the Dollhouse, that meant John had one too. And he could finally get Sherlock out.

After that was settled, John started looking at the imprints and the brain scans, trying to find out exactly why Sherlock thought they were _together_. He had to admit, it wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened that night, but it was still… confusing. After all the effort John put into hiding his feelings, and making sure his friendship with Sherlock never suffered to his want for a relationship that could never be (Sherlock didn’t _do_ relationships, that much was always clear) it angered him to have Sherlock come on to him like that. If Sherlock did indeed return his feelings—one fear-drunk night while they were on the run didn’t exactly give the most compelling evidence—then John wanted to hear it from him. Not some fake personality shoved inside of Sherlock. He wanted the genuine article back. Then and only then would they have a conversation about a possible relationship.

But John wasn’t about to get his hopes up. No, he had to concentrate. Try to see what Topher missed.

It was nearing on to dawn when he finally spotted it: the thing that had gone unnoticed. On the brain scans of all of Sherlock’s imprints, there was a reoccurring pattern. A spot on the Amygdala. It was always there, always in the same exact spot on every imprint. It looked like a bit of scar-tissue—which is probably why Topher ignored it—but since it was placed in the area where high-emotion memories were stored, it made John more than a little suspicious.

He knew from living with Sherlock that the man wasn’t completely unfeeling, quite the opposite. Most times, his emotions were so strong that they were completely out of his control. Was it possible that little bit of not-actually-scar-tissue was a part of Sherlock that remembered John? Something that was reaching out to him?

John really didn’t want to get his hopes up, but it happened anyway. No matter who Sherlock was on any given day, he knew John. He remembered his feelings for John. And if the other night had anything to say about it, he loved John.

Looking at the brain scans, John found his eyes blurring with tears. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and smiled down at the digital images in front of him. That little spot smiled back at him. All he had to do now was look at Sherlock’s original to see if he was right about what this meant. “I’m coming,” he whispered. “Don’t worry, Sherlock, this will all be over soon.”

 

~

 

“Topher?” John said, knocking on the office door.

The young man pulled his soldering torch away from whatever he was working on and smiled up at John. “Hey Jon,” he said. Topher was the only one who called him _Jon_. With everyone else, it was Mr. Watson, and the other handlers just went with Watson. It was like being back in the army.

John held up the tablet. “I found something.”

Topher’s smile fell away instantly. “I didn’t miss anything,” he said defensively.

“No you didn’t,” John agreed and pulled the door shut behind himself. “Maybe just overlooked? Here,” he opened the tablet and flicked to one of the brain scans at random. “See that spot on the Amygdala?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Topher nodded. “Just scar tissue,” he looked at the information on the scan. “It makes sense, that imprint was a boxer. Scar tissue is practically standard on those guys, it makes sense the imprint I made would have it too.”

The boxer, John tried to remember which one that was… oh yeah. The prize fighter someone wanted to give them a show at their own private boxing club. He remembered that file because the owner of the club had been arrested a few weeks later for distributing steroids, then found to be using a fake name to cover up his past affiliations with an arms ring (Moriarty’s) and then sent to federal prison for life.

“Right,” John nodded and flipped to the next scan. “How about this one?” Topher leaned forward to squint at the screen. When he saw it, his eyes went wide. “Same spot in exactly the same place! And here,” he flipped to the next scan. “And here,” the next. “They all have it! I just need to take a look at his original and see if it’s there too. That might be what’s causing him to glitch,” if by glitch, you meant causing the little bit of Sherlock still left inside that head to break through.

Leaning back in his chair, Topher went quiet. For some reason, he wouldn’t look at John. Instead, his eyes moved up to the security camera in the corner. Slowly, his arm moved to press the button that closed the blinds of his office. “I have something to tell you,” he said in a small voice.

John looked up at the now closed blinds, then back to Topher. “You know, if freaks me out when you do that.”

“Yeah well, it freaks me out when handlers know so much about brain science.” Topher was giving him that look again. The same one he had yesterday: suspicion rolled up in a little bit of anger and a lot of curiosity.

“Oh, for Christ’s sakes,” John sighed and dropped the tablet on the desk. “I was a medic!” Doctor. “I may not be a brain surgeon, but I know how to look at a brain scan and see scar tissue! Now we need to look at Siren’s original to see if this spot is there. If it isn’t, that’s what’s causing the glitch. Don’t you want to fix whatever this problem is?” Topher was still giving him that look, so John tried his best to look sincere. He was just a handler worried about his active. Mostly true, except he was a man worried about his friend. His best friend.

The sincerity thing seemed to work and the tight concentration drained from Topher’s face. He lifted his hands and rubbed his eyes, speaking into his palms. “Even if it is there, how do you know it’ll explain anything? I mean, I’m the fricking programmer and I didn’t even see it!”

John narrowed his eyes at the other man. Topher had just given this whole game away. “You already knew why that spot was there,” it wasn’t a question. And if it had been, the look on Topher’s face answered it for John. “That’s why you were so put off by his glitch.” Topher dropped his chin and looked away from John. Same as admitting it out loud. “What aren’t you telling me, Topher?” He snapped.

Topher threw up his hands and spun around in his chair, anything to distract. “Okay, okay! I give up! I was extra worried about Siren’s extra special glitch, because Siren’s not like the rest of them.” He sighed.

“How?” John said with no small hint of demand in his voice.

Eyes looked away from John again and Topher’s hands stirred nervously in his lap. “Siren… doesn’t have an original.” He said.

For one whole minute, John was completely frozen. No original… did that mean…? No. No, no, no, no. Sherlock couldn’t be gone, he couldn’t. Because John couldn’t live in a world where Sherlock wasn’t. Worse: where he didn’t even exist.

As soon as he unfroze, John wasted no time in lunging at Topher. Hands grabbed at the man’s shirt, probably ripping it. Good. If John could damage some small part of him, maybe it would keep him from killing him. Maybe. “What do you mean ‘he has no original’? What the fuck does that mean?” He shouted in the small man’s face. He was John H. Watson, and he knew two hundred and thirty ways to kill a person. At least sixty of those left no marks. He could leave the body here and no one would be the wiser….

“He doesn’t have an original because he’s still in there!” Topher said. John froze again, not as long this time, but Topher took his chance. “Look!” He pointed at the computer screen. “That spot! It’s not what you think! Just let me go and I’ll explain.”

The clouds of rage that had gathered in front of John’s eyes receded just enough for him to let go of Topher. Then they came back and had him reaching for his gun, pulling it out of the holster and making damn sure Topher saw it. “Explain.” He hissed between his teeth.

“Siren—I mean whoever he was—he’s still in there.” He pointed back to the computer screen, where a few of his brain scans were grouped together. “That spot you found, that’s the active architecture. Most people need a whole neural net to make their brains compatible, but not this guy.” A smile crossed Topher’s face and John relaxed a bit. With the man in full science mode, he probably didn’t care that John had a gun on him.

“I got to talk with him a little before we started, and he called his brain his hard drive,” Topher smiled. “I thought he was being metaphorical, but then I opened him up.” He shook his head. The look in his eyes as he gazed at the imprint brain scans could only be described as love. “It’s organic like any other brain, but it reacts like a hard drive! Better!

“The human brain has at least twenty times the processing power of any super computer,” he jabbed a thumb towards the screen and smirked at John. “This guy? Seventy times. Easy. And that’s him on a bad day! At his best, his brain is a hundred times more powerful than any super computer I’ve ever heard of. A hundred and fifty times more powerful than the ones I’ve actually seen.”

That really wasn’t a surprise to John. At first, he thought the hard drive business was just Sherlock being dramatic, but the longer they lived together and the more he learned about the man, he came to understand that it was the absolute truth. Through practice or some weird quirk of biology, Sherlock’s brain worked like a computer. Windows, apparently, because John had seen it freeze up more than once.

“Okay,” John nodded. “Why is it like that? Why is his architecture different?”

If possible, Topher’s smile widened. “That spot is all the active architecture he needed. It’s something with his contract—I don’t know the specifics—but he was to remain inside of his head, just turned off for the duration of his contract with us. When his five years are up, all I have to do is zap that little bit of active architecture, and he comes rushing back.”

John looked at the screen again, focusing on the dot. Imagine, that little dot of sort-of-scar-tissue was the only thing standing between him and Sherlock. What was more: the other night in the van, that _was_ Sherlock. Obviously, John hadn’t been wrong about the come on being Sherlock’s attempt to reach him, because asleep or not, Sherlock would always try to reach out to John. And John would always reach back.

“But wait,” he said. “On that last engagement, you said that you used a bit of his original personality. How did you do that if you don’t have a copy of his original?” Was he about to catch Topher in a lie? John wasn’t planning to, but he would shoot him. He really would.

“No,” Topher shook his head. “That was a lie. Well, sort of. I did use a bit of his own personality, but I didn’t need to upload it. I let it through using a backdoor in his head.” His eyes lit up and a giddy smile filled his face. “A back door that he already had in his neural pathways!”

Okay, this was really becoming too much. After another moment, John shook himself and refocused on Topher. “Why?” He asked. “Why is his contract different?” He would come around to the backdoor later. Right now, this was the first he’d heard of Sherlock’s contract and he wanted specifics. “Everyone gives up five years and has their head hollowed out, so why not him?”

“Honestly?” He asked. “I don’t know. Dewitt does all the contract stuff, I’m just the brain guy. But really, if it had been any other person, I would’ve have been able to do it.” The dreamy stare was back as he looked at the brain scan. “This guy… the economy of space, and the way he has everything organized. There is so much room in his head that he can handle two complete personalities. Easy. He could handle three, hell he could probably handle five!”

John needed to stop this before mad scientist boy went and turned Sherlock into a DID patient. Thankfully, that was about when the door opened. Topher shot up from his chair and John turned around, quickly tucking his gun in his belt.

“Hey,” Dominick nodded as he made his way up the stairs and towards them. He pointed up to the security camera in the corner and John silently cursed himself. All this work, suddenly so close only to lose it because of his temper. “What’s going on?” He asked.

John opened his mouth to say… something, but Topher got there first. “My fault,” he said quickly. He stepped around John, moving between him and Dominick. “On Siren’s last engagement, I played a prank on Jon,” he did that little, uncomfortable laugh of his. “At first, I made him believe that I didn’t do it, but when he found me out, he came up for some good-natured threatening.”

Dominick looked from Topher to John. “What’d he do?”

“Uh…” John stammered and looked back at Topher. He picked up the hint without even looking at John.

“I… kinda, made Siren’s imprint think they were… together without telling him.” He laughed again. “All in good fun!”

Dominick rolled his eyes and nodded towards John. “You’re a better man than me. I would’ve actually shot him.”

“Yeah, well,” John sighed.

Dominick gave them both a nod and walked out of the office, leaving them alone again. John walked around to face Topher. “Why did you do that?” He asked. “You could’ve ratted me out right then and there. Gotten me fired.” Or worse.

Topher shrugged and slumped back in his computer chair. “Dom would rather believe that I’m doing something stupid than one of the handlers is off the chain. Probably because it happens more frequently.”

“No,” John shook his head. “Really. Why’d you do it?”

Topher took a deep breath and dragged his eyes up to meet John’s. “Honestly?” He asked. “Because of the way you look at him. You may not be his friend John Watson, but for one reason or another, you want to get him out of here.” John stopped breathing, but Topher kept going. “I also think that, when the time comes for whatever plan you have, I kind of want you to remember that I didn’t tell on you. Mostly because I like being alive,” he smiled.

“Right,” John nodded and started breathing again. “Well, today has been a bit too intense for me. I’m going to go find Siren.”

He turned to go, only to be called back. “Hey,” he said. John turned back. “How did Dom know you weren’t seriously going to shoot me? I didn’t even know, and I was right there.”

John threw him a smirk and pulled out his gun again. The little jump Topher gave was satisfying as hell. “Safety was on.” He clicked the little lever back and forth before sliding it back into his holster and walking out of the office.

 

The be continued


	7. The Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has his theories, but will they be correct? More importantly: will they help him get Sherlock out of the Dollhouse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, not betaed or Brit-picked, so if you see a typo, please include it in your comment so I can fix things. :)

“And you’re sure?” Mycroft asked. “Absolutely sure?”

“I heard it from the programmer himself,” John said as he paced back and forth. His mobile lay on the table with Mycroft on speaker. He couldn’t stand still right now. He could barely focus on the conversation, let alone hold a phone. “Sherlock isn’t like the rest of them—he hasn’t been wiped clean,” thank fucking God. “According to him, Sherlock is still in there. He’s just, I don’t know, turned off? All I have to do is find a way to turn his mind back on and then we can get out of here.” Back to London, back home… just back.

“Good,” Mycroft said. “So you’ll be getting him out soon, yes?” Apparently, John didn’t answer quickly enough for Mycroft’s liking. “John,” he sighed. “You have finally figured this out. This plan required four phases: get in—which you’ve accomplished, bravo—find Sherlock’s mind, reunite body and mind, and then get out. You’ve successfully completed phase two quite handily, and phase three is already taken care of. Let’s move on to phase four, shall we?”

“And you know that I would love nothing more than to do exactly that,” John said through clenched teeth. Even Mycroft with his incredible intelligence (not Sherlock incredible, but still) couldn’t even begin to imagine how much John wanted to grab Sherlock and get him out of there right now. He’d been thinking about nothing else for almost two months. There was a jet on standby at LAX, waiting to take them home whenever they needed, and John would love to be on it tomorrow. But they couldn’t. Not just yet.

“Topher—the programmer—”

“Topher?” Mycroft mocked. “So familiar, are we?”

“Shut it, Mycroft,” John growled. After all this cloak and dagger business, he was feeling a bit like the sibling. He didn’t like it. “He said something about Sherlock’s contract.” That shut the other man right the hell up. “It was a part of Sherlock’s contract that he wouldn’t be hollowed out and I want to know why. Why would Adelle Dewitt make that deal with him?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said. Since he was on the phone, John didn’t have to hide his smirk of triumph. Hearing a Holmes say those words was like winning the Lottery. “Once you’ve cleared the smirk off your face, would you like to tell me what you’ve discovered?” Mycroft said, his voice unusually testy. “I assume you have your suspicions, and I’d be delighted to hear them.”

John took another moment to enjoy the idea of Mycroft being ignorant of a situation before he went back to business. Sherlock was more important than any petty argument. “I looked into your idea that Sherlock’s clients might have ties to Moriarty before he died. You were right,” and John had no problem admitting that. “Almost three quarters of the engagements he has end up with the client, or the client’s significant other, being arrested for some small charge, then they’re later found to be using a fake identity and linked to Moriarty’s arms dealings, and sent up for life. Somehow, Sherlock is using a back door in his mind to plant evidence on these people when he’s imprinted. Topher says he’s completely shut off, so how’s he doing it? And I won’t be able to answer that question until I see his contract.”

“Who holds the contracts?” Mycroft asked. “Can you get the information from this Topher person?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Topher says that Dewitt handles all the contracts and only she’s ever seen them.” He chuckled softly. “You don’t think she’ll let me have a look if I ask nicely, do you?”

“I’d say no,” apparently, Mycroft didn’t approve of the joke. “Adelle is a friend, maybe I could persuade her?”

John snorted. “Yeah, because she’s going to show the top secret contract of one of her actives to his brother. That’ll work out well.”

“How do you suggest we go about it, then?” Mycroft asked. The little rise in his voice told John that the elder Holmes was getting angry with him. Good. Though, he probably shouldn’t irritate him, not when he needed ideas on how to proceed from here.

“I don’t know,” John sighed. “As much as I hate it, I really don’t know where to go now.”

Silence filled the room and static crackled over the phone line. “John,” Mycroft said after a moment. “I know you think it unwise, but I do want to help my brother. A visit to Adelle might be fruitful.”

“Yeah?” John snorted again. “How so?”

Another silence, but this one wasn’t as empty. Somehow, John could hear Mycroft bracing himself over the phone. “She and I both occupy positions of power,” he said after a long moment. “And people with power get lonely.”

Suddenly, John wished that he could delete things like Sherlock could. Or, rather, he hoped his hearing was somehow off. Because he did not just hear about Mycroft’s plan to _seduce_ someone.

 

~

 

It had been a while since the party, and only nine hours since Mycroft said he would go and… _speak_ to Dewitt. There was no way he could get to LA from London so quickly, not even with his resources. John had to speak to her first before Mycroft ruined everything.

For once, Janet—Dewitt’s secretary—was not at her desk and John could just walk into her office. Probably not the best way to win himself any favors, but it might make the whole situation seem more urgent (which it was). “Ms. Dewitt?” John said as he pushed the doors open. “Sorry for the intrusion but—”

John stopped short. Dewitt sat in her chair with a tumbler of scotch in her hand, and leaning back on the polished surface of the desk? Glass dangling lazily from his fingers in that same way Sherlock held a glass? Mycroft. He’d gotten here before John. How? The shortest flight time from Heathrow to LAX was ten hours and ten minutes. How was this even possible?

Given the shock of Mycroft being there, John managed to pull it together quite quickly. Arms slid down to his sides as he went to stand at attention. “Sorry for interrupting, Ma’am.”

“It’s alright,” she smiled. “And really, no need to stand at attention. All you ex. Military handlers do that far too often. Drink?” Before John could answer, she stood up and walked over to her drinks cabinet—putting some respectable distance between herself and Mycroft.

“Thank you, but not when I’m on duty, Ma’am.” John gave a tight smile. He’d always been one of two things: a soldier, and Sherlock’s friend. Even three years after Sherlock was taken out of his life, John still had the tendency to default to his military training. He hated doing it in front of Mycroft. Yes, Mycroft, that’s right, be mad at Mycroft. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Holmes,” he grit between his teeth.

Mycroft gave him one of those lazy smiles and lifted his glass to John. “Always a pleasure, Jon. Adelle won’t tell me, so maybe you will: how is my dear brother doing?”

“I’m sorry sir,” John gave Mycroft his best shit-eating grin. “As Ms. Dewitt has probably informed you, we cannot give out information about our actives. My loyalties lie with this house, and my active, and I will not be telling you anything.”

Back at her desk, Dewitt smiled into her scotch. “I thank you for referring him to me, Mycroft,” she said. “It seems that he’s more loyal to me than he ever was to you.”

“Quite true,” he nodded and took a drink.

“Mr. Watson,” she turned back to look at him. “Was there something you needed?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, stepping forward. Though, he wished he hadn’t. Because now he could see the way Mycroft’s hand rested right next to Dewitt’s. There was nothing indecent about it, but knowing Mycroft’s plan… John tried not to shudder at the thought. “I’m not sure if Topher informed you, but Siren had a glitch the other night.” His eyes flicked over to Mycroft. “Perhaps we should discuss this away from Mr. Holmes?”

“Nonsense,” Dewitt said. “I thank you for your loyalty and promise to not inform him of anything regarding his brother, but I deem that he can know some things. This for instance.” She gave Mycroft a smile. “Please, continue Mr. Watson.”

“Yes,” John nodded. “Topher and I both went over all the brain scans and engagement parameters and we think we found the problem. It looks like there may be a back door in Siren’s active architecture,” this might’ve been a little detail that Dewitt was perfectly aware of, but John never knew what she would do if a handler found that out. Maybe this breach of her contract security would force her hand… he hoped. “A back door that’s letting a little bit of his original personality slip through.”

“He’s been wiped clean, Mr. Watson,” Dewitt lied. “His original personality is currently occupying a wedge Mr. Brink’s office. Even if there was a mistake in the active architecture, it couldn’t be his original breaking through because it’s simply not there.”

“I understand that, Ma’am. But the glitch, he was displaying behavior indicative of his former personality. If I could just—”

“How do you know about his original personality?” Dewitt snapped, cutting him off.

“Before I referred him,” Mycroft started to explain so John wouldn’t have to think of a quick lie. “I gave him a dossier on Sherlock. I don’t know how any of your technology works, so I thought it be best if Jon were prepared if my little brother ever decided to shine through whatever you stuffed in his head.”

Dewitt considered for a moment, then—thankfully—she nodded. “Covering all of your assets, even the ones you give away,” she said in a low voice, supposedly only speaking to Mycroft but John heard anyways. “That is very _you_.” Mycroft smiled at her and his hand inched closer. She did not move away. “So, Mr. Watson,” she said, looking back at John. “What exactly are you requesting?”

“I was wondering, Ma’am,” he said. John was deliberate about the pleasantries now. Maybe if he buttered Dewitt up enough, she’d give in. But really, when had that ever worked? “If there was a back-door access clause in his contract that could have caused the glitch?”

So fast that it broke the sound barrier, Dewitt’s smile fell. “Are you asking to see an active’s contract, Mr. Watson?” She asked.

John could practically see the razor’s edge in her voice, but he pressed on. “Yes, Ma’am. I think it’ll be helpful in finding and fixing Siren’s glitch.”

She smiled again, but this one was cold and pinched, nothing like the casual, carefree one she’d sported when he first walked in. “Yes well, despite the noble sentiment, the active contracts are private. I am the only one who sees them, and no one else.”

John knew he was pressing, but he just couldn’t stop now. “Please,” he said. “Topher says that Siren agreed to different architecture than anyone else. I think that the different programming is… causing him harm. If I could just look at his contract—see why he agreed to make himself different—maybe I can understand the source of the glitch.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, but that is impossible.”

“Adelle,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps you should—”

Whatever Mycroft was going to say (was he going to try and convince her? John couldn’t see that helping) was interrupted by the shrill ring of Dewitt’s phone. She set her glass down and picked up the receiver. “Dewitt?” She said. “Ah, I see. I’ll send him down.” Send who down? Before John could speculate about cryptic phone calls, she returned the receiver to the cradle and looked over at him. “This discussion will have to wait, I’m afraid. Siren has just returned from an engagement and you are needed.”

“What?” John nearly shrieked. Not his most in-command moment. “We don’t have an engagement until tonight.”

“Yes, that was the schedule.” Ms. Dewitt said.

“Was?” John could just barely speak around the lump in his throat.

“The client phoned yesterday afternoon, wishing to move things up. As it was your night off, we sent someone else out with Siren.” She said.

John’s eyes went wide. “No one else can go with him! He doesn’t trust anyone else!”

“And that is exactly the issue now,” she said. “When the interim handler tried to get him into the van, there was… an incident.”

“Where is he?” Everything fell out of John’s head. He didn’t care about the contract anymore, or whatever the fuck Mycroft was doing here, only Sherlock.

“Dr. Saunders’ office,” she said.

“Shit,” John cursed, then turned and ran out of the office.

As soon as the doors closed behind him, Mycroft reached down to stroke Adelle’s cheek. “You’re so cruel to him,” he said with a smile.

“Yes,” Adelle smiled back and let her eyes fall closed as she leaned into the touch. “It’s strange, though, isn’t it? The man you referred to me, comes to ask to see your brother’s contract on the day you ask the same of me. Should I deduce something from that?” A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

Mycroft chuckled softly and leaned down, bringing his mouth down to her ear. “I can assure you, I only asked so that I may know what sort of trouble brought my little brother to your door. After he’s away from this place, there is a chance I can use it against him. Mr. Watson, however, has purely altruistic intentions. I do not.”

“No,” Adelle said. “You never do.” Turning her head, her lips met Mycroft’s.

 

~

 

John made it down into the Dollhouse in record time. When he turned the corner, he saw the doors of Dr. Saunders’ office were open. Sherlock sat on the exam table looking around blankly, blood running from his lip. “Shit,” John cursed again.

He walked into the office and right over to Sherlock. Now that he was closer, he could see the full extent of the damage: the bloody lip and a scrape over one of Sherlock’s lovely cheek bones. Not the worst result of a fight, but it made John’s blood boil. Another handler did this?

“Oh,” a shocked voice next to him. Dr. Saunders. “Mr. Watson. I didn’t—”

“Who did this?” He growled, one hand already reaching down to the instrument tray while the other stroked Sherlock’s undamaged cheek. “Tell me right now, who did this?” He dipped a cotton ball into a little bowl of rubbing alcohol and started cleaning the cut. Sherlock winced softly, but didn’t pull away.

“Mr. Watson,” Dr. Saunders’ voice was firmer now that the shock had worn off. “You really need to leave so I can treat him—”

“No,” John cut her off again and grabbed another cotton ball to start cleaning to cut in his lip. “Just tell me. Who did this?”

“No one,” she sighed. “I was told that when they tried to get him in the van, he ran and fell down. It isn’t damage from a fight. Just soft tissue hitting hard asphalt. Now will you please let me do that? I am the doctor after all.”

John shook his head. “I’ve got it.” A few more swipes with the rubbing alcohol and everything looked clean. He tipped Sherlock’s head to the left and right, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything.

“You know,” annoyance radiated from her voice. “Most handlers let me do the doctoring.”

“Well most handlers aren’t trained medics!” He snapped back. Any other day, John would be proud of himself for remembering a cover story under stress, but right now he could only focus on one thing: Sherlock.

“I heard about the glitch the other night,” she said. “Is that why you’re so angry about this? Because the glitch made you think he loved you back?”

“For God’s sake,” John ground between his teeth. “You know, for a secret organization, you people gossip like hens.”

Dr. Saunders made a move towards the door. “I’m calling Dominick.” She said.

“No,” John sighed. For a brief second, he let his hands fall away from Sherlock and covered his face. “I’m not being inappropriate. I just… I don’t like seeing him hurt. He. He reminds me of someone. Someone I want very much to keep safe.” Dr. Saunders didn’t walk outside to alert Dominick. Instead, she pulled the doors shut and fell quiet.

Silence filled the room as she finally let John be. He was almost done bandaging Sherlock’s cheek (there was nothing for the lip, it would have to heal on its own) when she spoke again. “Who does he remind you of?”

His fingers fell away from Sherlock’s cheek and John took a moment to look at him before speaking. Those empty eyes looked back. “My best friend,” he whispered. “He… he died right in front of me. He fell off a building.”

“He committed suicide?” Dr. Saunders asked.

John’s closed his eyes tightly. He would never think of it like that. Never. “He hadn’t been right for days. Weeks. I should’ve known. Should’ve noticed in time to save him.” Save him from ending up like this… a blank, empty doll. “Siren looks a lot like my friend. That’s why his brother referred me: he knew that—after what happened—I would have a lot at stake, so I would keep Siren safe no matter what.”

“John?” Sherlock’s soft voice said. John’s eyes flew open to find the man looking at him. One hand hovered in the air between them, almost like he wanted to touch, but was waiting for permission. “You look sad. Why are you sad, please?”

Despite his sadness, John managed a laugh. He reached up and took Sherlock’s hand, putting it to his cheek as Sherlock obviously wanted to do. As soon as they were touching, he curled his fingers against John’s wet skin. “It’s alright, Siren.” John whispered. “I’ll be okay.”

“I have some paperwork to file,” Dr. Saunders said a moment later. “Siren’s all done, you can take him back on the floor whenever you like.”

John barely heard the soft slide and click of the doors as they opened and shut again, all he could do was focus on Sherlock. “John?” He said again. “Are you still sad?”

“No,” John smiled.

“But your eyes are wet,” Sherlock insisted, looking very much like a child convinced that he is absolutely right. “That means sad.”

John smile and brought his hand up to cover Sherlock’s. “I’ll be happy soon. Because I’m getting us out of here. Tomorrow.”

 

To be continued


	8. The John H. Watson Clause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, John finds his way in. Sherlock already made it for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed or Brit-picked. If you see a typo, I'd love to know about it. :)

Tomorrow. The word echoed in the back of John’s head as he put his fist through another one of the blank walls of the rented flat. He pulled is hand back and took a second to stare at the little spatters and streaks of blood around the hole. Better.

He turned to clean and treat his hand when his phone rang. John just rolled his eyes and pressed the speaker button. “What the fuck do you want?” He growled and continued into the bathroom.

“You might want to put some ice on that hand,” Mycroft’s voice said.

John snorted and emerged from the bathroom with his hand cleaned of plaster dust; he already had a bowl of ice waiting the table. Did Mycroft think he didn’t plan for this shit? “What do you want?” John demanded again. “And skip the pleasantries. The shorter this conversation, the more pleasant it’ll be.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, and then he got down to business. “I just sent a file to your phone. It’s Sherlock’s contract.” John stopped breathing. “I manage to get a partial copy from Adelle, but it’s more than enough. You should read it.”

“How the bloody hell did you do that?” John whispered. His anger had melted away as soon as those words passed Mycroft’s lips, replaced with cold, chilling terror. He was so close, he could almost taste it. The reality of shooting up the Dollhouse to get Sherlock out was here… John wasn’t sure he was prepared for that. What if he didn’t succeed? What if Sherlock got hurt? What if John didn’t have time to get his tracking chip out and they were found again?

“John, calm down.” Mycroft said suddenly. “I need you to breathe.” John took a great, shuddering inhale and realized for the first time that he had stopped breathing. “Now, I need you to read his contract. Half of the information is redacted, but as soon as you look at it, you’ll find your way out.”

“What do you, what do you mean?” John could barely speak. His hand in the ice had gone numb along with his legs. Could he dare hope that all of this was true?

“It’s not the Dollhouse’s contract with Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “It’s Sherlock’s contract with the Dollhouse. He hasn’t contracted their services, they’ve contracted his.”

“And what in the King’s English does that mean?” Mental faculties having returned, John was suddenly tired of Mycroft’s double-speak. He was a soldier, and right now he needed to be told what to do. Give him a plan and he would follow it, anything to get Sherlock back.

“He’s not working for them, John,” Mycroft said. “They’re working for him.”

John closed his eyes, his mind swimming in a fog of confusion. “I still don’t understand.” He did nothing to keep the sob out of his voice. So what if Mycroft heard him being this vulnerable? Right now, John was too emotionally overloaded to care.

“Read the contract,” Mycroft said softly. “Then you’ll have your answers. I’ll put the pilot on twenty-four hour standby; I expect you two to be back in London in no more than forty-eight hours.”

“Mycroft!” John shrieked. “I don’t know what to do! Don’t—”

But it was too late. The dial tone sounded loud throughout the flat and John had to suppress a sob. Two days to form an exit plan when two months hadn’t been enough? There’d better be something fucking spectacular in that contract.

It took a few more minutes, but after some deep breathing, John pulled himself together again. He pulled his hand out of the ice and dried it off, bandaging his split knuckle before returning to the phone. The familiar task of bandaging a wound had calmed John enough to pick up the phone with a steady hand. He clicked open the file from Mycroft.

He scrolled through the text. Black lines of redaction striped through the whole thing, but Mycroft was right: it was enough. John was a constant witness to Sherlock’s genius, but this was beyond…. It wasn’t like any of the other actives where they gave five years to get something in return. In his contract with the Dollhouse, they’d sought Sherlock out, asking him to go undercover (as undercover as one could get) in order to smoke out some unsavory people. All of whom just happened to be former associates of Jim Moriarty.

It was beautiful. The most elegant plan Sherlock had ever come up with.

Finally, when he reached the bottom of the screen, just above the list of names that Sherlock was going to take out (all blacked out) was the only paragraph that didn’t have a single redaction.  Sub-clause 36a: the John H. Watson Clause.

 

~

 

John didn’t wear a suit to work the next day. In fact, he didn’t even punch in for work. Dressed in his usual jumper and jeans, he took the lift up to the top floor, straight to Adelle Dewitt’s office.

As soon as the lift doors opened and John strode towards her office with intent burning hot across his face, her assistant stood up to try and stop him. “Mr. Watson,” she started. “You can’t go in there—”

“I’m expected,” John said, and waved a hand to dismiss her. Usually, it was Sherlock’s job to ignore people like they were objects, but John was in no mood right now. Not when he was so close to getting Sherlock back.

“Um, alright,” Janet said in a shaky voice and returned to her desk.

John showed himself in. Just as expected, Dewitt was at her desk, head bent over some file or another. When she heard the noise, she turned and gave John one of those tight smiles. “Ah, Mr. Watson. I wasn’t aware we had an appointment,” her eyes traced over him, taking in the denims and his jumper. “Or that it was casual Friday on a Wednesday.”

John said nothing, he just walked over to her and placed his passport on the desk. “Dr. John H. Watson,” he said quietly. “Formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I’m here to take custody of one Sherlock Holmes, to be returned to me in exactly the condition he arrived here.”

Dewitt’s eyes lingered on the passport for a moment. “Yes,” she sighed. “I thought as much.” Her eyes moved to meet John’s. “Mycroft Holmes’ forgery work is some of the best, but it would take more than that to fool me.” She handed John his passport before leaning back in her chair and smiling softly. “Do you honestly think I don’t know everything that is going on in my house?”

John gave her a shrug. “Then you know what’s in his contract. All I have to do is come in here and claim him, and you are obligated to return him to me, body and mind.” That’s what his contract said. The John H. Watson Clause: should John H. Watson (with proper identification) ever present himself to the Dollhouse asking after Sherlock, that would be the immediate end of Sherlock’s contract. And then it would all be over.

“Yes,” she nodded. “That is the contract. And though I have never broken any contract made with this house, I have to wonder,” her eyes flicked down to the file open across her desk. “Wouldn’t you like to take him on his last engagement? It’s happening just this evening.”

John hadn’t been briefed on an engagement yet—but no. No, no, no. She was not going to con him into staying. He was taking Sherlock and getting them the hell out of here, and there was nothing she could do about it. “No,” John said as calmly as he could. “I’m calling in his contract. You can’t keep him from me.”

Adelle shrugged one shoulder delicately, eyes still on the file. “So you wouldn’t be interested in an engagement with a Mr. Richard Brook?”

Before John could even figure out what was going on, the file was already in his hands. Jim Moriarty looked up at him from the small black and white client picture attached to every engagement file. John didn’t usually look at them, but connected with that name… he paid attention this time. It was Moriarty alright. Sherlock’s next engagement was the man responsible for all of this.

He always knew—in the back of his mind—that Moriarty had to be alive. He wasn’t the sort of man to eat his gun and have that be the end of it. And John had a look at the body found on the roof just feet away from where Sherlock fell: face perfectly intact, mad eyes shining up from the mortuary slab, nothing but a neat little hole in the back of his skull. It was too clean.

And it made sense: the solution to Moriarty’s Great Game was that one of them had to die. Either Sherlock survived, or he did. Well, both men died, and Sherlock turned up alive. It would make sense if Moriarty did the same.

Yes, the game was still on. And this was their chance to finish it.

“Why?” John whispered. “Why are the enemies of the Dollhouse so conveniently Sherlock’s enemies?”

“Our parent corporation, Rossum, represents fifty percent of the world’s wealthiest. Jim Moriarty represents the other fifty percent.” She said simply. “Easy to figure out, really.”

A hollow, barking laugh tore its way out of John’s throat as he looked at the file. The face that had haunted his nightmares since the pool stared back up at him, a client of Sherlock’s no less! And this had all been nothing more than corporate espionage. Sherlock literally gave his mind away in order to finally take down Moriarty, and it was all possible because of greed. People playing with the lives of others like their money gave them the right….

“What’s his engagement?” John asked, already flipping to the request sheet before Dewitt could answer.

“Something we don’t usually do,” she said. “We never send our actives as submissives, but Mr. Brook was insistent.”

So Jim wanted to play little S&M games with Sherlock’s body, did he? Funny, John had never taken him for a coward who needed to tie a man up to beat him. It just proved what John already knew: Sherlock was ten times the man Moriarty was.

“Of course,” Ms. Dewitt continued. “The backdoor that Topher installed in Mr. Holmes’ brain will let his true intentions through no matter the personality he’s been imprinted with. Rather like a sleeper active under his own control. One can only imagine what he might do with that kind of power.”

John looked up to see her smiling at him, a real smile of shared conspiracy. John smiled back. “One more engagement,” he nodded. “Then you put Sherlock back to rights, and we’re gone.”

“Agreed,” she nodded.

John let his eyes drift back to the file. He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. He was starting to like Ms. Dewitt so much.

 

~

 

Sherlock sat in the imprint chair, John standing next to him with his fingers gently stroking the man’s cheek. It felt so good to be able to be close to Sherlock that John didn’t even care that he would probably kill him for this behavior later. Let him. As long as they were together now, almost done with this, almost home.

Topher stood in his office playing with the transparent constructing screen, putting together Moriarty’s perfect Sherlock. “So…” Topher said, peering around the door to look at John’s back. “You’re actually his friend, John Watson?”

“Yes I am,” John smiled as Sherlock reached up and latched long fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand down to rest over his heart.

“And,” Topher kept going. “You gained access to the most top secret aspect of a company by using the exact same name?”

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“Huh,” Topher stopped working for a second and sized John up a bit. “Does that make us stupid?”

Finally, John turned around and looked at Topher. “It means that I have really good forgeries.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pressed a quick kiss to the back before walking into the other room with Topher. He looked up at the imprint he was constructing, trying to figure it out. “So what does Moriarty want of him?” John whispered, all business now. “What does the perfect victim of the world’s smartest psychopath look like?”

Topher shrugged. “It seems pretty basic. I don’t make submissives often, but this is all pretty normal.”

“Tell me about it?” John asked.

Topher looked back down at the mission parameters. “Well, this Richard Brook guy wants a SAM. I actually had to go look that up on the internet and, let me tell you, those were not websites I wanted to be on.” He gave that little nervous laugh and shifted his focus back to the imprint. “It stands for Smart Ass Masochist. He’s basically a submissive who talks back. Hit me harder, I’ve had better, blah, blah, blah.”

John nodded. “I can see why Moriarty would like that, but…” his eyes drifted back to Sherlock. Sherlock just smiled. “But that’s boring.” John said finally. “Moriarty, he’ll to anything to stop being bored. He’s killed people for the fun of it, ripped London apart. Even the whole idea of the Dollhouse—creating exactly what he wants—would be boring to him. And killing Sherlock this way would be boring.”

“Right,” Topher nodded slowly. “That sounds like an… interesting life you guys have back in London.”

John laughed softly. “You have no idea.”

They both went quiet for a few minutes and John let Topher finish the imprint. He drifted back over to Sherlock and placed a hand on his shoulder, thumb stroking over his collar bone. “John?” Sherlock asked. “You look sad.”

John didn’t even think about faking happiness. It never worked on the real Sherlock, and the doll Sherlock was just as observant, so he just shook his head. “I’m not. I’m tired. This is all almost over. I just can’t wait to be home.”

“Home with me?” Sherlock asked.

A wide smile flooded John’s face and he gave Sherlock’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Yeah, home with you. Just one more treatment and we’ll be out of here.”

“I enjoy my treatments.” Sherlock smiled.

“Hey, John?” Topher called.

He let go of Sherlock again and went back to the programmer. “Yeah?”

Stylus clutched in his hand, Topher pointed up at the completed imprint. “That’s everything he wanted. A submissive who answers to the name of Sherlock Holmes, who will talk back, ask to be hurt more, but he’ll never give in and use his safeword.”

“Right,” John nodded. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yeah,” Topher’s voice jumped an octave. The stylus turned nervously in his fingers. “This is actually the most dangerous imprint I’ve ever made. And I’ve made serial killers! He will literally push himself up to the point of death… but maybe that’s what this Moriarty guy is waiting for?” He glanced at John, who was still studying the imprint. “Do you really think that’s the plan? Is he going to try and kill him?”

All John could do was shrug. “Haven’t the foggiest.”

For some reason, Topher seemed to relax. “You know what I liked best about handler Jon?” He walked over to his desk and collapsed into the chair like his legs had stopped working. “Fewer Britishisms.”

John cracked a smile at that and shrugged. “You don’t have to worry,” he said and walked back over to Sherlock. “As long as there’s still a backdoor in his head, Sherlock will figure this out.”

“I hope you’re right,” Topher sighed.

A few minutes later, the imprint wedge was ready and loaded into the chair. John stood next to Sherlock, smiling down at him. “Ready to finish this?” He asked.

The chair started to tip back. “Yes,” Sherlock said. Then Topher pressed the button.

 

To be continued


	9. Meeting Richard Brook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, John arrives at the reason for all of this, Richard Brook. Or, more accurately, Jim Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so if you see a typo, I'd love to know about it.

John and Sherlock sat in the back of the van. Sherlock was wearing a fairly plain button-up and loose kakis, but John knew what was underneath: a harness, and nothing else. He’d watched as the wardrobe department handed Sherlock the studded black leather. He’d even watched Sherlock put it on. As soon as the dark leather touched smooth, creamy skin, John’s stomach gave its first hints of protest. Why did he think this was a good idea? Moriarty wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t about to let Sherlock near him—even in doll form—without at least ten plans in the works. Not to mention snipers covering the place.

John leaned forward and rested his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “Are you sure about this job?” He asked. Had to keep up the cover: Sherlock thought he was a switch hired from an escort agency that specialized in… this. And that’s what he had to think. Until the very moment this was over, he had to think that’s what was happening. “His order sounded pretty…”

“Intense?” Sherlock smirked.

“Dangerous,” John said. His fingers squeezed Sherlock’s knee a little tighter. “What if he ignores your safeword?”

Sherlock gave him another smile and laid his hand on top of John’s. “Then he’ll be black listed by the company and never allowed to show his face in an S&M dungeon in this city ever again, besides,” he squeezed John’s fingers. “You know it’s never come to that before.”

He knew, John knew that it was just part of the imprint. But he couldn’t help himself. “If worst comes to worst,” he whispered between tight lips. “Damn your pride and safeword. For me?”

“Relax,” Sherlock said in a breathy purr, already slipping into the character. “Just this one last job and we’ll have enough to move away and never come back here. Alright?”

“Alright,” John nodded. He reached over and slid open the door of the van then looked back at Sherlock. “Be careful, alright?” In so many ways…

“Always,” Sherlock smiled. He leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to John’s lips before climbing out of the van. “See you in a few hours.”

John was so startled by the kiss that it took him a minute to close the door. When he finally did, he turned and immediately looked at Sherlock’s vitals and every reading he could get. Now if only he had surveillance inside the house.

“Topher?” John said into the comm. line.

“What is it? Something couldn’t have gone wrong already!”

“No it hasn’t,” he said. Except. “Did you program him to think we were together, again?”

"Okay, I didn't do it the first time. And no. That was nowhere in the engagement parameters, so it would be nowhere in his head.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, kill the client wasn’t exactly in the engagement parameters either, but we all know how that’s going to go, don’t we?”

“He’ll use his backdoor for that,” Topher said. “Anything he does that I didn’t put on his imprint is him using that backdoor. Why? What’d he do?”

John didn’t feel like answering. Instead, he focused all his attention on the screens.

 

~

 

When a burly body guard led Sherlock into a giant sitting room, he expected one of a few different things. The typical “villain” look, with this Brook guy sitting in a winged back chair, fingers idly playing with something. You’d be surprised how often that happened. He was hired to have sex, not to have a verbal sparring match with Dr. No, but people still thought that was the expectation.

Another one of the suspected scenarios was that all the lights would be dimmed until the room was shrouded in almost complete darkness. That was another popular one. Most of the people who had to use his agency were too shy about their sexual desires to share them with a partner, so the cover of darkness made things a little less strange and awkward.

But neither of these scenarios met Sherlock as the guard closed the door behind him. The room wasn’t dark—quite the opposite—it was filled with as much light as possible. Large, floor to ceiling windows lined the walls, all with their curtains wide open. And the French doors leading out to the back garden were thrown open, letting the warm summer air into the house and bathing the room in the light of the setting sun. The man himself stood in front of the open doors, his back to Sherlock as he looked out at the sky. An exhibitionist then, Sherlock could deal with that.

“Sir?” Sherlock said, his voice already falling into the breathy purr he used on his clients.

Brook’s shoulders sagged. “Oh don’t start like that,” he whined. “Don’t start out _boring_!” One too-quick movement and he turned around to face Sherlock. He was short, but the steps leading out the doors made him an inch or two taller, just enough so he could look down at Sherlock. Probably planned it that way.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Sherlock said, his mocking voice now. The one that made all the Doms want to smack the smirk off his face. That’s what this client paid for and that’s what he would get. “What would you like me to do?”

“What you’ve been paid to do,” excitement shined in Brook’s eyes. It looked as if he wanted to do nothing more than lick his lips, and start devouring Sherlock right there. Excellent.

Sherlock gave him a playful sneer. “No,” he smirked.

Brook smirked back. “Good.”

But the time for playing would come. First things first. “We do have a little bit of business to finish before we begin,” Sherlock dropped the tone and met Brook’s eyes, not in defiance, but as an employee. For the moment, at least, the power gap between them wasn’t as great as it was going to be.

The shorter man arched a dark eyebrow and walked down the steps to start circling Sherlock. “Business?” He asked. “The money has been wired to your agency. As far as I’m concerned, the business of business is finished, and we can get on to more… pleasurable things.” His smirk returned, curling across his face in a way Sherlock didn’t trust. Having a good creep-o-meter was half the success in this line of work. A smile like that on any other client would bury the needle. But this man was paying him so much money, enough that he and John could finally get away from here… he had to stay and see this through.

“Almost,” Sherlock said and jerked his head in the direction of the guard stationed at the door. “Your order didn’t say anything about anyone else in the room. And my employers would find me remiss if I didn’t charge him for the pleasure of watching.”

Brook nodded and took a step towards Sherlock. He had to look up at him now, but it didn’t seem to bother him. “You really expect me to trust you enough without my man there?”

Sherlock just shrugged. Leaning down until his lips almost brushed Brook’s ear, he whispered: “I’m not the one holding the knife.” He straightened to see another wide smirk across Brook’s face. The meter shot up another few notches.

Pulling one arm out from behind his back, Brook showed Sherlock the silver knife he already knew was there. “Good!” His voice jumped to a height that hurt Sherlock’s ears, but he kept still, staring the man down until he dismissed his body guard. “Alright,” Brook smirked and looked at the guard. “You can go. Go… inspect the fence or something.”

“Yes boss,” the man nodded and opened the door to leave.

Brook’s eyes returned to Sherlock’s. “All alone now,” he whispered. The stark contrast between his near-shriek and this was enough to make Sherlock inch back, which only made Brook smile wider. “Kneel,” he ordered.

Right, time to start. Without another word, Sherlock knelt down on the floor at Brook’s feet. As soon as he was down, the man’s hand fisted in his hair, pulling his face up so their eyes locked again. “Unbutton your shirt,” he ordered quietly. “Nice and slow. Give Daddy a show.”

Sherlock complied. He had to, he was being paid to. Once his shirt was unbuttoned and discarded, he looked back up for more orders. This time, Brook did lick his lips. And it was just as creepy as Sherlock imagined. “Trousers now,” he breathed, the word coming out in a strained whispered. Brook wasn’t holding together well.

It was a job, but Sherlock managed to shuck his trousers while still kneeling. Nothing but the harness now, which is what Brook really wanted to see. “Mmm,” he purred and started circling Sherlock again. His one hand trailed along his shoulders, caressing the bumps and dips of his collar bone as well as the leather straps that sat against his skin. In the other hand, the knife gleamed. Silver, shiny, and still there. Sherlock paid very close attention to that hand. With the amount of money he was being paid, the client could do pretty much anything, but Sherlock knew where the line was, and he preferred it not to be drawn in blood.

Suddenly, Brook stopped circling. His hand shoved its way back into Sherlock’s hair and pushed his nose into his crotch. “Feel that?” Brook whispered. Sherlock could. What felt like a few hard, straining inches of cock, rammed up against his nose. The fabric already smelled of pre-come.

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled into the expensive fabric.

Brook’s fingers tightened in his hair, pushing him in tighter until it felt like he was trying to fuck Sherlock’s nostril with it. “That’s all for you. What do you think?”

Okay, time to start this then. “I don’t know,” his tongue darted out to lick at the fabric. Brook shivered against him. “Haven’t had a look yet, but it may not be enough for me. _Sir_.”

Brook pulled away and walked around behind him. The fingers against his skull tightened, this time, scratching a bit at his scalp. Brook brought his other hand up—the one with the knife—and pressed the cool blade against Sherlock’s cheek. “You’re perfect like this,” he whispered. He took another breath and let it out. For some reason, the exhale seemed… disappointed. “And perfect is so boring.”

Before Sherlock knew what was happening, the hand in his hair pulled up hard. Scrambling to his feet, he tried to stop the pain, but Brook kept pulling. And the knife. The knife was laid against his throat.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Brook purred in his ear. Wet lips left sticky trails of saliva against his skin. “Did you think it would be this easy?”

Was this part of the game? Is this was Brook wanted? To intimidate the smart ass right out of his Smart Ass Masochist? Is that why he hired Sherlock? Because no sub in his right mind would put up with this?

“Listen,” Sherlock hissed between his teeth. He was loath to break the scene, but this needed to be said. Or he might actually have to use his safeword. “I’m on board for pretty much anything, but you need to put the knife away _now_.” The one that was pressed dangerously against his throat, prickling his skin, making him itch. How long until it drew blood?

“No,” Brook shook his head against Sherlock’s neck. “I meant did you think _this_ would be easy?”

The doors to the room opened and the body guard returned. Dragging John.

Sherlock’s heart seized up in his chest. Brook just chuckled against the back of his neck. “Was this really your plan?” He laughed. “Try to kill me mid-coitus? Does that really seem like it would work?”

“Look,” Sherlock said. He wasn’t acting anymore. As soon as John was dragged into the room—struggling against the man three times his size with a hand around his throat—everything fell away. “You paid for me, we can do whatever you want. But leave him out of this. He was just waiting for me to be done. He’s not part of this.”

“Oh,” Brook sighed. “But I think he is.” He pulled his gaze away from Sherlock for a moment to stare at John. “Tell me,” Brook whispered. “Tell me who he is to you.”

“Sherlock—” John started, only to have the body guard grip tighter to his wind pipe.

Panic surged through him and Sherlock started speaking. “He’s—” he didn’t know what to say. He and John had never really talked about this. They didn’t define what they were, they just _were_. And were they seriously going to have this conversation now? Like this? “We’re together,” he finally managed to settle on.

Brook laughed into his neck, sending a little puff of air down his back, chilling him more than being mostly naked did. Sherlock was almost glad for the distraction. Fear, adrenaline, worry—his skin was on fire. “Together?” Brook mocked. “You brought your  _boyfriend_ to wait for you to have sex for money?”

“This is my last job,” Sherlock breathed. He was still looking at John, but the tears in his eyes blurred his vision. They were so close… he couldn’t lose it all now. “After this, we had enough money to leave LA. Get away.”

“Go where?” Moriarty asked. What was he doing? Why did the specifics of Sherlock’s life outside of this interest him? The hard bulge pressing into his thigh begged a different question—why was he _getting off_ on Sherlock’s life?

“Back to England,” Sherlock said. “To London, where John and I are from.” Brook had an Irish accent, so he was no stranger to being far from home. Sherlock hoped this would give them common ground to let them go. How had this turned into a hostage situation?

But Brook just kept going. “Where in London?” A tongue snaked out to lick the skin of Sherlock’s neck.

“Central London,” he didn’t know how he was keeping it together. John was pinned by the large body guard—arms crushed behind his back, hand clapped over his throat and mouth—so he had no choice but to stay where he was. Sherlock was fighting the urge to fall apart under Brook’s lips. Crumple back to the floor. How was he still speaking? “I know a woman who has a flat for us. She owes me a favor.”

The laugh in his ear started out low, so quiet that Sherlock almost missed it. Then, it grew. Louder, and louder. Soon, Brook was laughing loud enough for the street to hear. Sherlock was still held to his chest with the knife at his neck, but that didn’t stop him from laughing.

A few long, terrifying moments, and his laughter subsided. Sherlock could feel tears of mirth pressed into the back of his neck. But he wouldn’t look away from John. Not even when the mad man started to speak.

“I love it,” he laughed again. “I love that that’s your reward. The reward they gave you after hunting me down: to go back to your life.” His eyes flicked up to John. “With him.

“Tell me,” Brook whispered into his ear. His tongue darted out briefly to lick the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “Would it be as much of a reward if I killed him?”

Images flashed behind Sherlock’s eyes. The three of them—him, John and Brook—standing in a darkened swimming pool. That time too, Brook had held John’s life in his hands and dangled it in front of Sherlock like he was teasing a cat. They hadn’t settled it then, but it would be settled now.

The room exploded into noise. Shouts, scuffles, a gunshot. Sherlock threw his elbow back into Brook’s chest and he shoved his hips back. He was shorter, so instead of hitting his groin, Sherlock struck his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The knife scratched against his skin for the barest instant before clattering to the ground. Before Sherlock even knew what he was doing, he and Brook were on the ground. The knife. The knife was in his hand. And then it wasn’t. And then, it was in Brook’s chest. Stabbing through the heart.

Sherlock remembered now: not Brook, Moriarty. Moriarty had threatened to burn the heart out of him. Well, he’d returned the favor and driven a knife through it. He grabbed the handle and pulled it out, only to replace it. Another stab, just to be sure.

When he saw the last little pump of blood across his skin, Sherlock knew it was done. Finally done.

Hands still shaking with adrenalin, Sherlock could barely see straight. Nothing but blood, and panic and fear. And the gunshot. Christ, what happened to John? “John!” Sherlock managed to shout, but he couldn’t look away from Brook’s dead body.

Warm, familiar hands settled themselves on his skin. “Sherlock,” John whispered to him.

“John!” Sherlock shrieked again. He didn’t believe what his senses were telling him. John was fine—sitting next to him, holding him—and Moriarty was dead. Finally dead.

Strong hands grabbed his face and turned him around. Away from the body. His eyes focused on John immediately. A little blood running from his mouth, but otherwise unharmed. “Sherlock,” John said, his voice slow and measured. “Do you trust me?”

As quickly as it had come, the panic started to swim away. Sherlock’s mind cleared around those four words: do you trust me? “Yes,” he whispered. “With my life.”

The tight lines of worry creasing John’s face disappeared. “Yes,” he nodded. Leaning forward, he pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s forehead and stood them both up. “Would you like a treatment?” John said.

More calm flooded through him, but not as much as before. “Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “A treatment sounds nice.”

“Alright,” John smiled.

He slipped his coat off his shoulders and wrapped his around Sherlock’s shaking body. Their arms wrapped around each other, John led Sherlock out of the house, over the body of the dead guard and through the doors to the van waiting out front. Then, he took Sherlock back to the Dollhouse for the last time.

 

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terrible at writing Moriarty (he's worse than writing Sherlock sometimes) so if anyone has any suggestions on how to make him better--more believable, more in character, what have you--I would appreciate them. And I hope everyone enjoyed.


	10. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, everything is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this, I so did not expect it to be 30K, so thanks for hanging in there with me! Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. If you see a typo, just pop it in a comment and I'll fix it. :)

Sherlock wasn’t used to confusion. He found that he didn’t like it.

A few strange things swam through his mind. Snippets of conversation and his head on John’s strong shoulder. “So that’s it then?” John’s voice reverberated through his memory, low and comforting. “You took it all out? The active architecture, the bio links, the GPS chip?”

“Yeah, it’s all gone.” That voice was familiar as well, though Sherlock couldn’t identify it right now. “They’re always a little loopy after we delete the active architecture. He’ll probably be feeling it for longer because his case was really different. And his neck will be a little tender.”

“And his contract is done, right?” Memory-John’s voice sounded sharper now, so not talking to the same man?

“Of course,” ah, Sherlock could put a name to that voice: Adelle Dewitt. The woman who hired him for this. Or rather, the woman he sought out. Well, he found her, but she proposed the contract. Oh, Sherlock didn’t know anymore. It had been a long three years. “He has firmly crossed out all the names on that list, so his time with us is finished.”

“Completely?” In his groggy state, Sherlock could still remember the firm squeeze of John’s hands against him. It was pleasant. “I won’t have you coming back to him in a few years for something else. This ends. You never look him—or me—up again. Clear?”

“Clear,” she said.

Things got fuzzy again after that. Sherlock remembered a lot of movement, then resting against a warm body, and John’s hands still holding tight. “Almost home,” was whispered against his hair. Lips pressed to his temple. Again, it was pleasant.

That was where Sherlock’s half-hazy memories ended. From the smell and sound of the filtered air running through the cabin, Sherlock knew he was on a plane. Judging by the fact that he was lying down on a couch and not stuffed upright in a seat, probably one of Mycroft’s. Mycroft was involved? John had accepted his help?

More sounds reached Sherlock’s ears: a conversation.

“Yes, I know,” John said. Judging by his heavy tread against the floor and the strained tone, he was speaking to Mycroft. “And you know that this doesn’t change anything between us, yes?” Silence from John’s end, then: “Right, bye.”

The phone made a soft plunk as it dropped down into one of the seats and John took a breath. Sherlock gave him a moment.

Once he deemed that enough time had passed, Sherlock decided to let it be known that he was awake. “John?” He whispered.

In what seemed like an instant, John was kneeling next to him, the back of his hand touching Sherlock’s forehead. “Alright?” He asked quickly.

“Mmm,” he mumbled. Sherlock pressed his head forward to lean into the touch, but it wasn’t enough. He brought his hand up and grabbed John’s fingers, sliding them down to cup his cheek. Judging by the sharp intake of breath, John didn’t expect that. Well, neither did Sherlock. John had just spent the last seven weeks touching him in ways that were previously unallowable, it made sense that he was startled that—now back in his right state (or close enough)—Sherlock didn’t shy away from the touch, he actually relished it.

Tight silence filled the plane as Sherlock held John’s hand to his cheek just like he had weeks ago, not moving or making a sound. He was just so glad to have John there that he didn’t see the need to speak. Unfortunately, John did.

“Sherlock?” His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. “What do you… remember?”

He took a moment to consider it. Images flicked behind his eyes, different people, different places, different feelings. All of it strange and alien, but none-the-less him. When his mind finished cataloguing, the answer was quite clear: “Everything,” Sherlock whispered.

“Fuck,” John breathed. His fingers twitched against Sherlock’s skin. “Topher said you wouldn’t—”

“Please, John,” Sherlock said. He opened his eyes again and looked up. When they met, every muscle in John seemed to relax; too many weeks of looking into Sherlock eyes and seeing that he wasn’t there. But now he was. He was.

Panic he didn’t understand filled him up and Sherlock gripped John’s hand tighter. “Please,” he said again. “I don’t want to talk about it now,” not ever, if he had the choice. “Can we just… lay here?” As if to explain, Sherlock rolled over so his back was to John. The space he made on the couch was unmistakable.

John swallowed hard and nodded. “Alright, Sherlock,” he said. Climbing onto the couch, John wrapped himself around Sherlock, fitting their bodies together and holding Sherlock close.

They both exhaled a breath they’d been holding for too long. John for seven weeks, Sherlock for three years.

 

~

 

When they returned to 221B, Mrs. Hudson wasn’t in. Good, John thought. Sherlock probably wasn’t up to her emotional assault, much less explaining the whole not being dead thing.

Sherlock walked into the flat ahead of him and John hung back in the kitchen to let Sherlock have his moment. He busied himself making tea as the detective walked into the sitting room and started looking at all their things. After a few moments of inspection, he walked over to his chair and kneeled down. His violin was exactly where he’d left it. Carefully taking the instrument from its case, Sherlock cradled it to his chest for another long moment.

“You didn’t change anything,” he said softly, still holding the violin.

“No,” John said as he steeped the tea. “At first, I couldn’t bear to see anything moved. Then, I found out that you might still be alive and I knew I had to keep everything the same for when I got you back.” Not _for when you came back_ , always for when _John got him back_. Because John would always bring Sherlock back, even from death.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s fingers stroked the wood reverently. “Thank you.”

“Tea?” John offered and walked into the sitting room holding two mugs. He waited as Sherlock put his violin away before handing the mug to him.

Instead of sitting in his gray chair, Sherlock drifted over to the couch. John thought nothing of it and went to plunk down into his arm chair, but Sherlock’s voice stopped him. “Join me?” He asked softly.

John looked at him for a minute. He looked so… small. With his knees pinched tight together, his shoulders slumped a bit and his tea held in both hands so his elbows rubbed together, Sherlock looked small. It had never occurred to him that such a large man—tall stature, even larger personality that always had no problem filling a room—could ever look small. Is this what the Dollhouse had done to him? The strange, new architecture in his head, had it changed Sherlock? Maybe it worked by suppressing the person, so that this Sherlock was the result of three years of repression?

“John,” his voice interrupted his thoughts, snapping him back. “Please?” Sherlock’s hand was still lying on the other cushion of the couch.

“Yes,” John managed to make himself stand and sat down next to Sherlock, but he made sure to leave enough room for him to have his usual personal space. John had already figured the… happenings on the plane were just a small out of character moment. Surely, Sherlock would want things back to sorts now.

When he sat down, Sherlock surprised him again by moving closer. Closing the gap between them until their knees were brushing together. He didn’t pause, just delved right in. “I remember everything,” he started.

“Sherlock,” John’s hand moved unconsciously to place itself on his knee. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.”

But Sherlock kept going, almost as if John hadn’t even spoken. At least that was still the same. “I remember everything,” he said again. “I know what I signed up for—I know _why_ I signed up. Moriarty was still out there and I had to stop him. Blowing his brains out on a rooftop just to force my hand, no, I could never believe that.”

John shook his head. “I didn’t either. But… there wasn’t anything I could do. You were dead—”

“Exactly!” Sherlock’s eyes lit up and his hands slid to cover John’s, gripping it like life. “That’s exactly why I had to use the Dollhouse! To go undetected! I knew that Moriarty would notice what was happening with his former associates. After a meeting with the same doll: they started getting snatched up by the police. He probably put it together after the first arrest, and he decided to use it to his advantage. And he probably thought that—if I was using the Dollhouse to hurt him—he would use the Dollhouse to kill me.” Sherlock’s gaze softened. “And you. He knew that you’d find me, and when you did, then he would make his move to get rid of us both. But he had to be patient. He had to wait until you thought you’d gotten us out of there.”

John arched an eyebrow. “The clause in your contract?”

If possible, Sherlock smiled wider. “Yes! I knew you’d find me, so I had to put you in my contract. While I was making my way through his network, you had a chance to find me. As soon as you did, the final steps were in place for Moriarty to make his final push for us.”

John’s mind was swimming. Here he’d been thinking that Sherlock was mentally damaged by whatever the hell the Dollhouse had done to his head, when really he’d just been waiting to tell John about how this was all part of his brilliant plan. Of course it was part of his plan, John never should have suspected anything else. But why? Why was Sherlock telling him this?

“How,” John started. “How did you know I’d even find you? In fact, I didn’t—Mycroft did.” Bastard that he was, he was still useful in all of this.

Sherlock shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how,” he said. “I always knew that you would. And I wanted you to know,” Sherlock pulled one hand off of John’s and brought it up to squeeze the other man’s shoulder. They both took a breath. “I wanted you to know that there was always a plan. I’m sorry that I had to leave you the way I did, but it was the only way.”

Relief flooded through John. It was a plan, it was always a plan. Sherlock would never let himself be used like that… not if it had no pay off for him. For the greater good. John didn’t know why, but that suddenly made everything better. It shouldn’t, but it did.

John shook his head and chuckled softly. “God,” he sighed. “I always thought that, somehow, if you were still alive, the first thing I’d want to do is punch you.”

A small smile pulled at Sherlock’s lips. “You still can, if you like.”

“No,” John chuckled again. “It’s alright.” Then, his smile faded. Sherlock was still holding his hand. And he was still gripping John’s shoulder. Their knees brushed together as Sherlock wiggled on the couch.

Was this normal? John found himself thinking. Yes, he knew that touching had been allowable in his friendship with Sherlock… but that was three years ago. And for some reason, John couldn’t remember if they were ever _this_ close. If _this_ was allowable. Was this normal? Too many times, he’d asked that question of his friendship with Sherlock Holmes, and always came up with a decisive answer: no, but he liked it anyways. For once, the answer wasn’t that simple. This time, he didn’t know.

“It was winter,” Sherlock said, breaking John out of his thoughts. John looked up to see the detective staring at him with those eyes. Finally filled, finally there. “Just before Christmas. We were chasing a reluctant informant. He took a sharp turn and you slipped on some ice, twisted your ankle. I called Lestrade and told him to find the man himself, then went to you.

“You refused to go to the hospital, doctors always do,” Sherlock smiled and John smiled back, though his eyes were a little blurry. He was tired… yes, he would go with that. “So I took you back home and you told me how to wrap up your ankle properly. Then we sat here. You let me hold your feet in my lap to keep them warm. I was… honored, that you trusted me that much.”

John let out a little laugh. “You’re honored by my trust? Sherlock, you regularly let me fill syringes with unknown drugs and inject you without as much as a question.”

Sherlock smiled back. “Oh John, I always knew you were sneaking me flu shots. We do share a medicine cabinet.”

The room dissolved into laughter for a few minutes. For a little while, John could almost forget the past two months—hell, the last three years—because it was just he and Sherlock. Sitting together in their flat, laughing about the fool things the other did.

When they finally stopped laughing, John noticed that they were much, much closer than before. Sherlock’s head was resting on his shoulder and dark curls tickled his cheek. “Sherlock?” John asked.

“Yes?” Sherlock mumbled. He sounded half-asleep. But John needed to know.

“When you say you remember everything…” he didn’t know how he planned to finish that sentence.

Plush lips suddenly brushed against his ear, sending a shiver down John’s spine. “I remember when you touched my cheek. I remember wanting to tell you that, yes, I was in here. But I couldn’t. Not until everything was finished.”

“And is it?” John found himself saying. He didn’t turn to look at Sherlock, just let those lips keep whispering in his ear. That way, if Sherlock rejected him, it wouldn’t be as bad. Because he didn’t look at that face.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispered. “It is.”

Silence again. Sherlock moved to place his hand on John’s cheek. A gentle pressure urged John to turn his head. He did, and their eyes finally locked together. “John,” Sherlock said. “I’m in here, come and get me.”

John couldn’t hold back any longer. Even if this was just some sort of trauma, PTSD, whatever, and Sherlock changed his mind tomorrow, John didn’t care. He leaned forward and pressed their lips together. Three years of waiting. Two months of watching. Now it was finally here. Sherlock was finally back, moving under his fingers, sweet breath sliding over John’s skin.

“John,” Sherlock mumbled into the kiss.

He moved to pull back, thinking that Sherlock was calling this off—protesting because he’d gone too far—but long fingers tightened against the back of his neck, holding him still. John was able to relax again. Not an admonishment, just getting into the moment. The moment. Bloody hell, he was kissing Sherlock Holmes!

A few glorious moments passed, filled with soft moans and warm skin. Then, John felt a long-fingered hand on his lap, heel pressed down to rub against his cock through the layers of fabric. He pulled back, breaking the kiss he’d started. “Sherlock,” he panted. “You don’t have to—”

The fingers stilled and Sherlock’s eyes met his. “John, if you think I’m doing this because I think you expect it, you’re wrong.” He leaned forward, pressing John down until his back hit the cushions of the couch. “You just spent weeks taking care of me when I needed you the most. Let me take care of you for one night?”

Arms shook underneath him as John finally let himself go. “Yes,” he whispered and melted back into the couch. “Yes.”

A wicked smile crossed Sherlock’s face and he started pulling at John’s flies. “Hush now,” he whispered.

Soon, Sherlock had John’s shirt and jeans unbuttoned. He pulled John’s hard cock out into the cool air and started stroking. John couldn’t hold back his moans. “Sherlock!” His hips canted up of their own accord. So long… thinking about nothing but getting Sherlock back… and now he did. Had him back. Leaning over him. Touching him. “Christ!”

Sherlock laid down so he was half on top of John and kept stroking. With every upstroke, he smeared pre-come around the head of John’s cock with his thumb. With every down stroke, his long pinky dropped down to stroke over John’s sac. It was wonderful.

Too soon, it was too much. John barely had time to grab Sherlock’s arm and rasp a hasty “Coming!” before he spilled. Warm, sticky fluid coated Sherlock’s hand and shot onto John’s stomach.

When everything was still again, Sherlock stayed where he was and gave John a moment. John gave one last ragged exhale before a smile crossed his face. His eyes fell closed. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock just smiled and reached over to the coffee table to grab a few tissues. He cleaned them up before stripping John the rest of the way out of his clothes. He pulled his own clothing off and grabbed the duvet off the back of the couch. Covering them both, Sherlock laid across John’s chest. As soon as he was down, John’s arms wrapped themselves around Sherlock’s back, holding him in place.

“If you think you’re getting away again,” John laughed.

Sherlock smiled against his chest and pressed a soft kiss to John’s left nipple. The movement pressed Sherlock’s erection against his thigh. “If you ever want me gone, you’ll have to kill me.”

“Right,” John sighed. Sherlock could already hear the first dregs of sleep pulling at John. “Noted. Just, uh, just give me a minute and we’ll get you sorted, okay?”

“Not tonight,” Sherlock whispered. “That was a thank you. For saving me.”

John brought a hand up to cup the back of Sherlock’s head, threading his fingers through the curls and holding him as close as he could. “Always,” he whispered.

John closed his eyes and drifted off. They didn’t need to have a long talk about what this meant for them, or how Sherlock would be feeling after the Dollhouse. None of it mattered anymore, and John suspected that it never had. Like everything else in their lives: it happened, and now it was over. No use dwelling on it. Not when there were so many other adventures to have.

 

~

 

Epilogue

 

“Thank you for meeting me,” he said. Sherlock gave a noncommittal nod and continued to stare into his tea. He wouldn’t say he was doing this under duress, because he had been a willing participant, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. “I trust everything is going well with John?”

“That is none of your business,” Sherlock snapped. He jerked his head up to glare at the other man. “You agreed before all of this started: once everything was settled, you leave us alone. I filled my end of the bargain, now you fill yours.”

“Of course,” the other man smiled. “But I will need some… _assurance_ that it is finished.”

Sherlock met those cold, blue eyes. So much like his own, and yet so not. Everyone believed it when he said he was a sociopath, but he had more emotions than he knew what to do with. Certain other family members did not. “I planted your virus in Topher Brink’s system the day I got there. Before they even put the architecture in my head. Obviously, you know this, because you’ve had an exact mirror of their system for three years. So now, if Mr. Brink comes up with anything particularly destructive, you can delete it before it ever becomes a threat to the world.” Sherlock placed his un-drunk tea on the fussy little table next to him. “Deleting it from Mr. Brink’s head, however, I can’t help you manage that.”

In one swift movement, Sherlock rose from his chair and buttoned his jacket, staring disdainfully down his nose. “Now if that is all, I ask you to kindly piss off. This was my last job for Queen and Country, I mean it this time.”

As Sherlock swept to the door and started pulling his coat on, he couldn’t help but hear the happiness in that tone. “Oh, I don’t know. It seems to have worked out rather well. You got what you wanted, the Dollhouse got what it wanted, and Her Majesty’s Government got what it needed. I’d call it one of your more successful jobs.”

“Yes, except that it led to my indentured servitude for three years,” Sherlock hissed. He’d been accused of being a proud man (Lestrade would say self-righteous bastard) but he’d always prided himself on being able to put aside whatever narcissism he had when it came to the Work. This was the first time that something had gotten under his skin like this… he found that he didn’t like it.

“I wouldn’t call it a complete waste,” he said. “You got John out of this situation.”

He ground his teeth together. “Once again: none of your business.” Sherlock fumbled with his gloves as he tried to pull them on. One of the few times in his life where fury actually compromised his usually cool demeanor and it had to happen in front of _him_. Unacceptable. Finally, he had his gloves on and he reached for the door. Pulling it open with a violent yank, Sherlock didn’t even turn. “Lose my number.”

As he left Mycroft’s office, he tried to crash the door as loudly as he could.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Mycroft is puppet master. Hope everyone enjoyed!


End file.
